


Poker Night 3:  The Fire This Time

by Ruth_Devero



Series: Poker Night [3]
Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Poker Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:44:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruth_Devero/pseuds/Ruth_Devero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rest of that week:  Fraser and Ray aren't the only ones on fire.  An arsonist is torching the low-rent section of Chicago; and is it possible that EVERY nut in Chicagoland wants to tell Ray Vecchio their plans for the turn of the millennium?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poker Night 3:  The Fire This Time

It was cold. He hunched over his cards, feeling the cold air wash over him from the open window. Cold. It would warm up later in the day, but right now it felt good.

With trembling fingers, Ray Vecchio touched the abandoned card hand from last night. A royal flush. He had folded on a royal flush. A royal flush for a royally flushed Mountie. He smiled. Some trade.

His body felt like champagne was running through it instead of blood. Memory of a hot mouth on his, of warm hands caressing every inch of his body—the Mountie, as relentless in his pursuit of pleasure as he was in his pursuit of truth, justice, and the Canadian way. Some trade indeed.

All night. Somehow he’d ended up staying here all night. Nothing much doing that third time—both too exhausted from the first two—but still he’d ended up staying all night. Damn.

What the hell had been on his mind, starting this? That first night, teasing Fraser by suggesting strip poker, seeing just how far he would go before he’d back down. And the surprise of the slow heat building in Ray’s own groin as the Mountie lost piece after piece of clothing, until he was naked and Ray was trying not to imagine the parts of Fraser he couldn’t see. And then that final, fatal suggestion, which Ray had found himself far too eager to carry through.

And then last night—

Abruptly, he turned the cards over. Where the hell was the Mountie? How long did it _take_ to get shaved in the morning?

Ray snorted. Last night. Did last night mean he was gay? Of course not; of _course_ he liked girls. That meant he wasn’t gay, didn’t it? And, really, guys were—well, on the whole, guys didn’t turn him on. That also meant he wasn’t gay, didn’t it? Didn’t it? _I’mm not gay_ , he thought ruefully, _I just spent a night in bed with another man, doing to him what I wanted him to do to me. I’m not gay; I just like to suck on the Mountie_.

Warmth next to him, and a hand came down to caress his on the cards. He looked up. Benton Fraser smiled down at him. Dressed in his Super-Mountie uniform, the red one that made him look so—

Ray stood and picked up his jacket. “Ready?” he said briskly.

“Yes, Ray.”

Something missing in the silence that followed. Ray knew what it was, paused, and stepped forward to do it.

Kiss. Kiss that couldn’t lead to sex—Fraser had to get to work—but a nice, friendly, thanks-for-a-really-great-night kiss. Not love, just— Well, not exactly love, not real love.

But the champagne in Ray’s veins fizzed up at the kiss. And the flush on Fraser’s face as they stepped apart wasn’t just the reflection of the uniform. Quit it, Vecchio; this isn’t the romance of the century, this is just the morning after some really great sex. Take the Mountie to work; go home and deal with Ma’s reaction to you being out all night.

He put on his jacket and followed Fraser, eyes lingering on the hem of the Mountie’s tunic. Just keeping an eye on Fraser.

His heart beat in time with the bubbles in his blood.

——

Eyes locked straight ahead; back straight, hands clasped behind it; weight distributed evenly; calf muscles tensing and easing in unconscious rhythm to keep the blood from pooling in the feet. Body settled in the familiar discipline.

Now a chance for the mind to work, undistracted. Mind and body almost disengaged. Woman on a portable phone at three o’clockclock, strolling past him as if he were a statue, deep in a conversation about bonds and T-bills. Short skirt; good legs. Three skateboarding young men at nine o’clock, weaving around the woman, curving around him as if he were a lamppost, waving grubby hands in front of his face in a puerile attempt to break his concentration. No helmets, no pads; accidents waiting to occur.

Mind free to work. Free to consider just what had happened last night, the night before. Young woman with a toddler who was helping to push its empty stroller, seeing the nice Mountie doing his job.

Last night and the night before. Ray and last night and the night before. Playing poker and then— Well, what?

Strip poker. Playing strip poker for the first time in years, annoyance at losing hand after hand gradually giving way to what he had later realized was excitement. The subtle titillation of stripping off piece after piece of clothing, watching it go to Ray. Like removing armor, leaving himself vulnerable. The thrill of doing the unexpected, of moving in a direction he hadn’t been before, of not knowing exactly where it would take him—what the old people called “moving to a new country.” Stripping himself free. And the gradual quickening of Ray’s breathing, slight shake building in the hand that held the cards, growing flush on Ray’s cheeks. Titillating. But why? Why now? Why Ray?

Meg Thatcher at nine o’clock, passing in front of him, pausing before entering the consulate, her ineffable perfume warming the air. It had to be perfume; no one could smell that good naturally. That quick glance that was almost like being caressed. Inspector Meg Thatcher. Beautiful. Soft and yielding one second, then fleeing behind the stone wall of her rank. The desirable woman taking refuge in the Mountie’s discipline.

Meg Thatcher. Man with a briefcase running at two o’clock. Tie flapping; expensive shoes slapping on the pavement; air wheezing in and out of laboring lungs. Not a terrorist. Running on past toward nine o’clock. Late for something.

Ray Vecchio. Why Ray? Why not Inspector Thatcher? Meg Thatcher, and the warmth building slowly between them, the more titillating for rising so slowly. Meg Thatcher, and the flirtation gradually deepening to something more. Why Ray, when he had Meg?

Or didn’t have Meg. Little boy standing directly in front of him, staring. In some way he didn’t have Meg. Little boy squaring his shoulders, straightening his back, drawing in his chin, imitating the Mountie. Stand steady; give him a good model.

Flirtation. Growing depth of affection. The thrill of pursuit and withdrawal that was no less exciting for being so familiar. But there was an element here that made him—uncomfortable. An edge that made him chary of giving his love with abandon. And he wanted to give his love with abandon, with the reckless joy he’d read about, heard about, dreamed about. Give his love to someone who wouldn’t hide safely behind some barricade, who couldn’t lock him out in the cold misery of his own isolation.

Little boy puffing out his breath in an exaggerated sigh, going limp before trudging off toward three o’clock, scraping his feet in exaggerated exhaustion. Models could be difficult to follow.

Isolation. He’d followed the model his father had set, maintaining the right, pursuing duty at all cost. And the reward was isolation. Well, to be fair, he often sought his own refuge inside discipline. The way of the human heart was more complex than the way of the wolf and the caribou, more unexpected than the law seemed to account for. He often hid behind his own familiar wall of discipline and duty in bewilderment at the messy vagaries of those with whom he came in contact. The wall shielded him from those who seemed to find laughable his devotion to duty and honor and the right. A refuge. But isolating.

Tourists at nine o’clock. Canadians, bright with relief at something familiar in this foreign city. Stand steady; give them a comforting image.

Isolation. That must be an explanation. Safe from the psychic wear and tear of other people’s hurt and other people’s expectations. But starved, he had come to realize, of the simple purity of human touch. Few people touched him. Hugged him. Put out a hand and just made contact as if it were the natural thing to do.

Well, one person did. Casually draping an arm across his shoulders as he sat at a computer, clownishly doing it again as he stood at his post. Ray. Beautiful hands gesturing in their own form of speech, poking him in comradely agreement, brushing him, steadying him, reminding him that Ray was there, beside him, behind him, with him. Startling at first. But Ray’s touch seemed as natural as sunlight.

Two elderly women at nine o’clock, steadying each other before crossing the street. Carrying shopping bags. Dressed alike; maybe sisters. Harmless.

Not just touch. That wasn’t the full explanation. Touch was only one element, though Ray’s touch as Fraser was paying off his marker that first night had been—electrifying. The main element—well, the main element was Ray. That openness. That willingness to display almost every emotion. It was intoxicating, being that close to such freedom, such volatility. The physical was—well, the face on first sight had seemed all nose, and then seemed all nose and hazel eyes, but he’d learned to see the grace there: the balance of nose and chin and ears that gave Ray a unique handsomeness, a strange lopsided beauty. A face both mobile and strong. And there was Ray’s own strength, which so often overrode his vulnerability. And a certain exotic foreignness—urban, Italian, American—that was exciting.

Yet there was more. Something about their relationship that was unlike anything Fraser had ever experienced. Some connection he’d never made so intensely. Thoughts that seemed to link; ideas that meshed. Their differences were always apparent; and sometimes it seemed that Ray’s devotion to duty was shaky. Ray’s thought process, shaped in the pattern of an American city, slid in directions alien to Fraser’s, formed around the Canadian wilderness. But the connection was still there. Together they were stronger, more complete. He and Ray meshed as if they were halves of one whole.

Three teenage girls crossing the street at ten o’clock, pausing to giggle at him before walking on in rhythm to a giggling conversation about some just adorable boy.

Meshing. Ray meshed with him in a way that was—unexpected. Part of it was, well, it was timing. Fraser couldn’t count the number of times Ray had appeared exactly when needed, doing just what needed to be done. The first time, just after they’d met, in the restaurant where Fraser, caught up in discouragement and loneliness and loss, had been reading his late father’s journal with an aching heart—and looked up into the twinkling eyes of the police officer who’d tracked him down to apologize for slighting him. Then, at his father’s cabin, just in time to warn of approaching killers.

Timing. Fraser had never met anyone with such perfect timing—as if Ray knew exactly what he needed. There, slamming into Mrs. Markle’s car with the Chevrolet, just as she was about to run down Fraser. There, gun in hand, when Lou Robbins stood ready to kill him. There, when Frank Zuko’s minion was about to murder him. There, catching Fraser just as he was about to fall from the top of a building. There, with the photocopied “wolf license” just as Diefenbaker was about to taken by Animal Control. And—well, there, when Fraser had been about to make the biggest mistake of his life. Always there for Fraser. Something more than just coincidence, as if they were perfectly, intoxicatingly in tune.

Five nuns at nine o’clock, smiling, clicking cameras. Stand steady; stand for the right.

In tune. In tune with Ray, whose openness warmed him. Ray, whose warmth comforted him. Ray, whose steadfastness heartened him. Ray, strong and protective and funny and—once he’d had time to think about it, once he’d been given the chance, once events had come down to a crisis—good. Really—so deep in his heart that sometimes it seemed to get lost—good. Ray, trustworthy. Ray, who would know what to do with love when it was given him.

And that was why. Fraser had been ready for a move into a new country. The poker game had been that. Sometimes you just had to jump off the cliff away from the old and into the new, and trust that someone would catch you on the way down. And the one there to catch him was Ray.

Clock chiming; shift almost over.

Was this love? Perhaps. Frightening, really. Not just the handing his heart to another, but the implications of handing it to Ray. Love between two men was—well, not unnatural: same- sex mating had been observed in the other animals. He himself—well, while he’d experienced the same-sex mating, Ray was the only man who’d stoked some fire burning deep within him; the only man he really yearned to love was Ray. And love between two men was—well, not popular. What would happen if it became public, he shuddered to think.

Shift almost over. Then, office duties. And then Ray coming to pick him up.

Ray, coming from nine o’clock. And Fraser knew what he would do.

——

Stiff breeze toward the lake, traffic moving smooth. Not for long, though; traffic on Lake Shore Drive wouldn’t stay this smooth for long, this close to five o’clock. The arteries of Chicago clogged quickly well before rush hour. Ah, Chicago during rush hour: no place like it in the world.

Concentrate on driving, Vecchio. Look at the beach; look at the road; look at those little choppy waves the breeze is making on Lake Michigan. Don’t think about the Mountie waiting at the end of the drive. Just enjoy this little jaunt before you plunge into the honking madhouse to pick up Fraser.

Jeez, the look Ma had given him that morning: stiff-lipped betrayal. His mumbled apology had fallen into a silence pregnant with unasked questions, and he’d eaten twice as much breakfast as he wanted, to mollify her. Frannie her usual self, cracking wise until Ma had started in on her. Then, the usual round of family bickering that simultaneously announced affection and cleared the air. His last day of vacation, and he’d puttered around the house, fixing little things, until he had a chance to leave early to pick up Fraser.

Pick up Fraser. Those words didn’t used to hold that much thrill. Picking up Fraser used to be just something he did from time to time. But now—he grinned at the double meaning, and then his stomach flopped inside him. Were they going to do it after he picked up Fraser? Did he want them to? Did he not?

Hang a left here, respond to other driver’s middle-finger salute: Chicagoan for, “Hey there, how ya doin’?” Ease up behind the Benz, just close enough to announce your presence and to keep that Volvo on the right from edging in. Rush hour in Chicago was war in its purest form, and suddenly Ray realized that he was enjoying himself, enjoying the thrum of idling engines, the punctuation of honking and police whistles and shouts. His heart was light with the city sounds and with the gleam of sunlight on windshields; he was enjoying the jockeying for place in the traffic’s slow current; and his heart did a flop.

Aw, Vecchio, don’t do this to yourself. Aw, dammit, Vecchio, you’re excited about seeing _him_ ; you’re excited at faking out that Caddy because you’re that much closer to picking up _him_. This is stupid, Ray: this is just sex. Keep it in perspective. Don’t make it more. Don’t make edging out that Bekins van some victory you can lay at the Mountie’s feet.

But, oh, look at him, all honorable and straight in that Mountie uniform, clear face brightening when he saw the car. Striding toward the Riv, cheeks rosy in the brisk Chicago wind. Pull over, unlock the door, sit there behind the wheel and feel your heart melt down into your socks.

Do a double take at what he pulls out from inside his tunic and lays on the dash.

Ray stared at Fraser, on whose flushed face was an expression both unexpectedly firm and unexpectedly attractive.

“While this rose was grown in the United States, Ray,” Fraser said, “it belongs to the consulate and may be considered, technically speaking, Canadian.”

Rose? Oh, yeah—last night. He gazed helplessly at the single, long-stemmed red Canadian rose glowing on the Riv’s dashboard and turned his gaze to the single, long-legged Canadian Mountie sitting beside him on the Riv’s front seat. _Oh, Benny, you big literal-minded mook, it was_ you _I was talking about. The single red Canadian rose was you._ But the other kind was nice, too.

“You _stole_ me a _rose?_ ” Ray said, reaching for it. Smelled wonderful. The man couldn’t even steal Milk Duds, and here he is stealing roses?

“Well, I—” Why was Fraser blushing? “—I purchased a rose on the street and, well, switched them.”

Ray’s whoop of laughter startled the driver in the next car, who gunned the engine to get out of the way of this maniac pulling out into traffic. Ray grinned out the window as he checked for oncoming cars, grinned at the cop directing traffic at the intersection, grinned at the little old lady crossing at the light. Canadians. You could always count on Canadians.

He sniffed the rose, aware that Fraser was watching him. He could feel himself blushing and dropped the rose into his lap. Getting roses—that was nice. Well, he was getting them from Fraser, but—well, that made it nicer. Didn’t it? He picked up the rose, sniffed it, dropped it again. Fraser quietly watching him. He couldn’t look. Were they going to do it when they got to Fraser’s apartment? Did he not want them to?

The ride to Fraser’s apartment seemed all too short and all too long. But there they were, and he was parking, and Fraser was getting out of the car and leaning down into the car and speaking to him.

“What?” Ray said.

“I said, ‘You _are_ coming up, aren’t you?’ ” Like there was a choice.

“Sure,” Ray said, like there was a choice.

Tuck the rose into his jacket, follow Fraser into the building and up the stairs and down the hall. And into an apartment where a wolf snarled a greeting.

“Well, I _asked_ you if you wanted to come!” Fraser snapped back.

Loiter close to the door, looking around, trying to look casual. Jeez—the bed was right _there_. Look through the kitchen window, memorize god-knows-what outside it. Pat the wolf. “Hey, Dief! How was your day?”

Oh, gosh, right _there_. The bed was right _there_. And suddenly Fraser was right _here_ , just a heartbeat away, standing at what looked like attention, head tilted slightly, hat under one arm, and burning blue eyes fixed on Ray.

“Permission to kiss,” said Fraser.

 _Wha_ — “Permission to—?” Aw, jeez: it was Mountie talk.

Little smile, head tilted fractionally the other way. “Permission to—kiss.”

 _Uh_ — “Uh—sure.”

And, kiss he did. Just stepped right up and kissed. And Ray, backed up against the wall, closed his eyes and kissed right back, melting into it.

Kiss. Aw gee, he loved to kiss. Almost anybody, almost any time, almost any place. Back seat, front seat, dance floor, porch, elevator in the Hancock Building—once, behind a whole lot of backs. Quick kisses, long and hungry kisses that lasted about a week, firm and thorough and demanding kisses in ratty little apartments on West Racine— Kisses, kisses, kisses. The rose was getting crushed in all this, and the scent was as heady as the kiss. Kisses with fondling, kisses without, kisses with Marta Louise Sanderson in the sixth grade, all braces and experience, teaching him more than he’d learned from anybody since—

Benny was no Marta Louise Sanderson, but what he lacked in technique, he more than made up for in enthusiasm: the word “kiss” didn’t even begin to describe what was going on. Warm lips and tongue and teeth and hot mouth, with the added zing of Benny being his height so it was like kissing in bed—Ray’s head was spinning.

This kiss was the center of the universe: all the stars and planets and galaxies and everything revolved around it. The muscles in his legs were melting, though parts of him were firming up quite nicely. Benny’s mouth was the only thing keeping him upright.

He caught himself when Benny pulled away—locked his shaky knees and kept himself somehow from sliding down the wall.

Benny’s breathing was ragged, like he’d been running, and something in his face told Ray that he was getting no mercy from the Mountie: Ray was going to be kissed and stroked and plundered and licked and nuzzled and sucked and ridden and nibbled and caressed until he melted and there was nothing left but skin over bone. No mercy. Ah, no mercy.

Gasping, Ray focused on that red rose of a mouth, just inches from his own.

“Permission to bed you.”

Aw, jeez, who thought Mountie talk could be so sexy? “Oh, _granted_ ,” Ray wheezed, and the mouth was on his again, with Benny’s arms crushing him close.

Oh, kissing and caressing; Mountie hat sailing across the room to the chair, and Benny’s hands baring skin for Benny’s mouth to linger over: jacket off, rose sweetening the air as it tumbled to the floor, shirt open and off, shoes stumbled out of, belt undone and trousers unfastened, hands hooked into the waistband of Ray’s briefs, preparing to slide everything off—

— _pound, pound, pound!_

Ohmigod, it was the unlockable door, and somebody was getting impatient.

Ray tried to clutch all his clothes to him, praying that nobody could see through the door, praying that his legs would hold him up. Benny, hair mussed and maybe one tunic button undone, clutched him, glaring frustration; and then visibly controlled himself, slowing his breathing, before he started for the door. Dief was already there.

Hide. Ray sprinted for the corner near the closet. Benny opened the door. “Ah! Mrs. Nguyen!” He sounded breathless.

Mrs. Nguyen had a little tiny old-lady’s voice that Ray couldn’t really hear.

“Oh, just—about to take a nap,” said Benny.

It seemed almost immoral to have such a, well, _useful_ erection in the presence of such a nice little old lady. Indecent thoughts, too.

“Why, _thank_ you!” said Benny. “They look delicious—I can’t wait to enjoy them.”

Oh, god, he was going straight to hell, the thoughts he was having about Benny, this close to that nice old lady, standing here with his pants sliding down and an erection nowhere near wilting.

“Oh, yes, Diefenbaker will enjoy them, too. Thank you so much!”

Yes, hell.

Door closing. “Here!” said Benny. “Either take them over to that corner or take them outside. But leave us alone.”

He felt like an idiot, shuffling out to meet Benny, who was setting a paper plate with cookies on it on the trunk by the bed. But Benny’s eyes told him otherwise, and Benny’s kiss meant he was outvoted.

“Mrs. Nguyen,” Benny said between kisses. “With cookies.”

“Oh, yeah?” Kiss.

“Yes.” Kiss.

“Any good?” Kiss.

Long kiss. “Oh, yes.”

Lingering hands working trousers and briefs down over his erection, over his ass, Benny squatting to run his hands down Ray’s legs, puddling his clothes at his feet. Ray stepped out, stepped free of them, and stood naked before Benny’s searing gaze.

And then Benny was reaching up, and his mouth was on Ray’s cock. Ray gasped and grabbed, clutching hair, clutching wool serge, in a desperate attempt to keep his knees from buckling. Oh, that hot, wet mouth on his cock, that slick tongue working it, working it, those powerful hands clutching his ass— Oh, if Benny kept this up, he’d lose it and pour himself down that throat, pump himself dry in no time, and there’d be nothing left for later. But Ray was helpless to speak.

Benny pulled free, and Ray found himself focusing on blue eyes that seemed to be searching his face for clues to something. “Oh, yeah,” he breathed, and Benny smiled.

An experiment. Benny was trying it out, seeing if Ray liked what he was doing. Oh, yeahhhhh.

Ray laughed in surprise as Benny’s wet tongue slid up the inside of one thigh, to his balls, then up the other thigh. Benny smiled and stood, his eyes glowing.

“ _Your_ turn,” said Ray, and his mouth was on Benny.

Gee, it was fun to undress the Mountie: all those buttons and buckles and straps and strings and suspenders—it was like opening a gift. Tunic open, throat kissed, suspenders plucked like harp strings, kiss against a laughing mouth—

— _knock, knock, knock!_

Oh, god, not again!

Ray sprinted to kneel behind the bed as Benny caught his breath and went to the door, very definitely tousled. Ray peered over the edge of the bed, watching Benny open the door and lean around it, shielding the lower part of his body from whoever was on the other side. Dief seemed caught between finding out what Ray was doing and finding out whether food was involved in what was going on at the door.

“Oh, _hello_ , Mrs. Donato!”

And, oh, god, she was Italian! Straight to hell. But he was laughing, biting the sheet to muffle it. The most popular man in the world—he had to choose the most popular man in the world to make love with. Ah, god, going straight to hell, but laughing all the way.

——

“Why, _thank_ you!” It was zucchini bread, warm from the oven. He loved it. Ray would love it. He could watch Ray enjoy it after—

What was that she was saying? “Oh, I was just—taking a lie down. Not asleep. _Thank_ you! I look forward to enjoying it. Thank you again!”

At last. He closed the door as calmly as he could. Diefenbaker was nosing at the package. “No!” he said. “You’ve had enough sugar for one day. Would you like to go outside? Well, do it anyway.” He opened the door and shooed out the wolf. Really, with treats in the house, that wolf just couldn’t keep his mind on— Where was Ray?

He scanned the room, found Ray apparently sitting on the floor on the other side of the bed, his laughing face all Fraser could see. Fraser grinned in spite of himself. It was just ridiculous. He didn’t see his neighbors for days, and then, on the one day he wanted to make love to Ray for hours, they all descended. Well—

He put the bread on the kitchen counter, snatched a chair from the dining room table, and ignored Ray’s shout of laughter as he firmly wedged the chair under the door knob. There. They could knock and he could ignore them, but they couldn’t get in.

Back to the bed, Ray climbing over it to meet him. Ridiculous. Then Ray’s mouth captured his, and the fire roared anew.

A quick motion divested Fraser of his tunic; he tried not to flinch as it landed in the chair across the room. Worry later. Another quick motion, and the suspenders were off his shoulders. The under tunic was next, and the undershirt, and Ray’s hot mouth was sliding over his chest, teasing nipples, warming his belly. He groaned.

Boots would have to be next, and Ray was seating Fraser on the side of the bed, kneeling before him to untie the butter-soft boots. Dizzying sight: naked man, clearly aroused, tugging at his boots. Yes, dizzying. He lay back onto the bed, reduced to groaning sighs.

Boots off, and socks, and his hands joined Ray’s in a frantic struggle to free himself from the jodhpurs and boxer shorts. Ray’s mouth closed on his penis, and he cried aloud in the sheer joy of it—

— _slam, slam, slam!_

Neighbor. Pounding. Wall.

“Sorry, Mr. Kline!” Fraser gasped. Ray’s yelp of laughter was even louder than his own groaning, and he fumbled to silence it. This wasn’t funny; it wasn’t funny at all.

Ray laughed against his hand and then kissed it, and somehow they were on the bed together, Ray above him on all fours, laughing against his mouth. Oh, he was helpless; all his muscles had melted—all but one, and it seemed about to explode. He moaned as Ray’s mouth found the rim of his ear, and he kissed the fingers Ray pressed to his mouth.

“Shhh!” Ray said, laughing, and he was gone and then back again, to press something soft into Fraser’s mouth.

A gag. His undershirt a gag to muffle his cries.

Fraser’s eyes snapped open, met Ray’s. Speculation there. Hesitation. _Yes_.

Ray fumbling on the floor, and Fraser’s left hand was brought to the head of the bed; belt wrapped around the wrist to hold it to the bed frame. Ray’s eyes on his, watching; right wrist bound with what seemed to be Ray’s briefs. Hazel eyes, watching for refusal.

Helpless. Oh, he was helpless now, helpless against those warm, caressing hands; helpless against the hot mouth. Helpless against Ray. Helpless.

He felt the orgasm building; felt Ray’s soft belly brushing his cock; felt his own hips thrusting, thrusting against that silky warmth; felt the raw cry that ripped his throat as he bit down on the gag and gave himself wholly to an ecstatic explosion that seemed to last an eternity.

And then, oh, he was nowhere, and everywhere, drifting, all muscles slack. Dimly, he felt hands on him, spreading cool jelly; felt his knees spreading themselves wide; felt Ray’s bulk filling him; felt slow movement building, building.

His eyes drifted open and found that beautiful face, strained in the anguish of ecstasy. Ray, taking pleasure in his body. _His_ body. The slow burn inside him was stoked anew as he felt Ray’s momentum build, build, build; the fires stirred again as Ray leaned down and bit down hard on Fraser’s gag when the frenzied hips made a final, eternal thrust.

A dozen heartbeats, and Ray let go of the gag, sliding from Fraser’s body to collapse on top of him. Fraser spat out the gag and slid his wrists free of their bonds.

Slide Ray up, head onto Fraser’s shoulder, ease a pillow under him, listen to their heartbeats slow to a steady beat. Fraser hooked the top sheet with one toe and pulled it up over them, tucking it snug around them. One hand found the tender nape of Ray’s neck, and he stroked it, stroked it, stroked it. Weightless. They were drifting together, weightless. His eyes closed, and he let them drift.

“I gotta get goin’.”

A sudden shock of cold air as Ray pulled away and sat up. Fraser sat up also, blinking at him, watching in sickened disbelief as Ray moved around the room, cleaning himself off, gathering clothes, dressing.

“I can’t stay tonight; Ma was real upset about last night.” His eyes flickered toward Fraser as he dressed. Fraser watched the crushed rose go into the pocket of Ray’s jacket.

Of course. Of course Ray was going home; his family was important.

Fraser took a deep breath, closed off a protest, gathered the sheet around him. Ray was—well, of course he was going. They’d made lo—had sex, and now it was time for Ray to leave. Time for Fraser to—well, supper was still to be eaten and—other things. Press the wrinkled tunic. Tidy the apartment. Well, maybe not supper; his stomach was—lurching. Let it settle. Eat later, after it settled.

He got out of bed, still clutching the sheet, and found his boxer shorts, slipping them on. The fire inside him was going out.

Ray had stopped on his way to the door. He licked his lips. “Look—I just can’t stay the night. _You_ know how it is. _You_ know.” His eyes were everywhere but on Fraser.

“Of course, Ray.” He sat on the edge of the bed.

Ray made three strides and kissed him quickly on the lips. “See you tomorrow?”

“Uh—of course.” Something seemed wrong with his voice.

He wrapped his arms across his lurching stomach as he watched Ray leave. Diefenbaker took advantage of the opening door to slip inside the room, and Fraser’s hand automatically went to the wolf’s head as he nosed him, automatically put the plate of cookies on the floor when the wolf sniffed at them.

Of course Ray couldn’t stay the night; he had obligations. Other people also had claims on his time; he wasn’t here just for Fraser. Fraser felt the fire dying out inside him, felt cold seeping in. He stretched out on the bed, clutching a pillow to him as if it would keep out the chill. After all, this was just sex—just the natural urge to mate. There was really nothing more.

Timing. Foolish to think that there was some deeper connection between them, just because Ray’s timing had seemed so in tune with his needs. There, on the roof, reaching down just as Fraser could hold on no longer, catching Fraser’s hand just as he and that child began to fall. There, on a lonely night in a restaurant, eyes alive with sympathy and humor, melting the loss in Fraser’s heart with his blunt warmth. There, shivering at the door of his father’s cabin, all the way from an American hospital to warn Fraser of the killers even then approaching.

There. Always there; always just at the right time.

Fraser crushed the pillow against him. Good timing didn’t imply some cosmic connection between souls. That was just silly. Good timing was just good luck. It meant nothing more.

Tidy. He should tidy the apartment, walk Diefenbaker, read his father’s journals, get a good night’s sleep. He should get busy, get going. Read a book. Ray wasn’t coming back. People didn’t always come back just because you wanted them to.

Busy. He should get busy.

When Diefenbaker began to pace in front of the door, asking to be walked, an hour had passed, and Fraser hadn’t moved.

——

 _Why didn’t you just kick him in the teeth? It would’ve been kinder_. Ray turned again on a bed suddenly made of rocks and tried to will himself into restfulness.

The surprise in those blue eyes when he pulled away; the sudden hurt squelched because Canadians didn’t make a fuss. Good, Vecchio; use that natural reserve. Walk out on him after that mind-blowing sex, knowing he won’t do a thing. Ray had seen Fraser closing himself off as he dressed, wrapping himself back up in cool politeness. Good job, Vecchio.

He turned again, punched the pillow. He couldn’t have stayed; there would have been too many questions. Who was she, and were they getting married, and when would he bring her home to meet the family? Too many questions with hurtful answers.

Punch the pillow. But mostly he couldn’t have stayed because—well, there was just—

He turned over, folded the pillow beneath his head. Fraser bringing the rose, putting Mrs. Nguyen’s cookies beside the bed for later, buying out the condom section of the drugstore just to make sure he had Ray’s favorite kind—it was just—it had felt—

Turn, shift the pillow, pull the other pillow beneath it. Fraser’s hands stroking the back of his neck, easing a pillow beneath him, that sense of comfort in familiar arms—it had just felt—it had just seemed so—well, so— _domestic_. Like they were married. Like they really cared for each other, like married people did. Domestic.

He turned onto his back. “Domestic” and “Fraser”—two words that didn’t belong together, not with Ray in the middle. Well, not just two words—three: “Domestic _with_ Fraser.” _Those_ three words. Domestic with Fraser was just not part of the overall plan of a good Italian-American cop who wanted to keep his family running smoothly, keep his job running smoothly, keep his _life_ running smoothly. No getting domestic with Fraser.

He reached up and punched the pillows from both sides. “Love” wasn’t a word he’d use about Fraser; he smiled at the memory of their “love” discussion the night before. Not love. Not married-people love. This was just—well, it was just friendly sex. Just just-friends sex. Well, actually, really-good-friends sex. Really, really good friends.

He pulled a pillow from under his head, clutched it to his stomach. Really-really-really-really-good-friends sex. Not love—not really. Nothing domestic about it.

He held the pillow close, remembering laughter in blue eyes the night he’d found Fraser in that greasy spoon, remembering appreciation in a perfect face when he’d showed up at the cabin to warn Fraser of approaching danger, remembering satisfaction in a smile when he’d caught Fraser as he and that teenager were about to fall. Nothing domestic about _that_. Just friendship, just duty. Just being a buddy. Nothing domestic. Just keep it that way. Of course; it was that way already.

When the first bird chirped, signalling the approach of dawn, he was still awake, staring into lightening darkness.

——

Some movement from Diefenbaker woke him just before the _snick_ of the doorknob turning brought him bolt upright in bed. The door opened; a figure entered in the dimness.

“It’s just me,” said Ray.

Fraser smoothed a hand through his hair, watched as Ray approached, shedding the jacket, shedding the shirt. “Just because I can’t stay all night doesn’t mean I can’t wake you in the morning.” Stepping out of shoes, slipping off trousers, sliding into bed clad only in socks and black silk briefs.

Fraser glanced at the clock: half an hour until he had to get up. Timing. A bubble of joy began to expand inside him.

His laughter was muffled against the beautiful smile. Timing, he thought as Ray’s hips shifted to allow him to work the silk over buttocks soft as peach skin, timing was everything.

The breath-catching sense of abandon when his own boxer shorts were off, leaving him completely naked against velvet warmth. Hands warm on his shoulders, at the nape of his neck. Hazel eyes gentle. A moan against his throat when he wrapped his hand around Ray’s hardening penis, stroking, stroking, building pleasure in the greyhound-slim body.

Timing.

The heat of a hand fitting around his own penis. His hips settled into the rhythm of that hand.

Oh, yes, timing was all.

——

Ray sat at Fraser’s table, on Fraser’s chair, not drinking tea out of one of Fraser’s cups. He hated tea. He was back on again today—a later shift. Vacation over. Fraser was already at the consulate.

Aw, Vecchio—what the hell are you _doing?_ You’re digging yourself in deeper— _that’s_ what you’re doing. Sky-blue eyes glowing as he’d crossed the room, peeling off clothes; a laugh he’d muffled with a kiss; sweetness flooding through him at Benny’s joy. His skin burned at the memory of Benny’s touch. Oh, Vecchio, this hole is just getting deeper by the minute.

He finished a slice of Fraser’s zucchini bread while he stared through Fraser’s window at Fraser’s view, then turned to look around at Fraser’s apartment. Spare. No nonsense. Like the man himself. Except— Ray smiled. Except in bed. Plenty of nonsense there. Oh, yeah.

Books in Fraser’s bookcase, pictures on Fraser’s little table, Fraser’s bed perfectly made, with those hospital corners. Chair, trunk, foot locker. Fraser’s. Everything in the place Fraser’s.

He looked down into the tea and saw his face dimly reflected there. Oh, yeah— _everything_ in the place was Fraser’s. He smiled. Absolutely everything.

He drank the lukewarm tea and got ready for work.

——

Skeleton Woman. Staring ahead at the movement on the street, Fraser kept thinking of the story of Skeleton Woman, driven from her village for some betrayal—driven into the sea, where she died and her bones drifted in the currents until they were pulled out of the water by a fisherman. Reluctant, the fisherman took the bones back to his small house and, taking pity on them, fitted them back together.

Then Skeleton Woman began to move, to speak to him, to ask for clothing and for warmth and for food. Reluctantly the fisherman complied, dressing the skeleton and tucking it into his sleeping furs, offering it dried fish to eat, all the while complaining about the demands, berating himself for bringing the skeleton home to begin with, threatening to take the skeleton apart and to toss the bones out into the icy night.

But he did not.

And next morning, when he woke, he found a woman lying where the skeleton had lain—a woman plump and warm and grateful, whose love warmed him in ways he had never anticipated. And they lived happily together all the rest of their lives.

Skeleton Woman. Fraser knew how she must have felt, adrift in the cold currents of the uncaring sea, without a home or a family to remember her. Like the fisherman, Ray offered comfort, but like the fisherman, he was afraid of the ultimate responsibility, unsure that he wanted to go where that comfort led.

But it led to greater comfort, to security, to home. Like Skeleton Woman, Fraser longed for anchor, and, like Skeleton Woman, he would offer much in return.

And, like Skeleton Woman, he would work patiently for what he wanted, would fumble toward some sort of ecstacy.

He really had no choice.

His heart had left him none.

——

Wolf whistles greeted him at the 27th.

“Hey! _Hey!_ Keep it classy!” Ray shouted against the noise. You’d think they’d never seen it before. What was handcuffed to him wasn’t all that unusual: red-orange hair slicked straight back; purple dress with skirt up to _here_ and cleavage down to _there_ ; ruffled lavender ankle socks over lime-colored tights; and little strappy shoes with four-inch heels. Silver earrings shaped like little models of the solar system. Navy eyeshadow smudged clear around her eyes. Just your average hooker—with a twist. Alessandra Willson wasn’t a hooker, but a pickpocket who did zilch for the money she took.

But the language she put into her walk promised different. “Hey, sell it on the street,” he protested, and she turned a flirtatious smile on him. Like she really meant it. Jeez, what a ham.

Second floor.

“Well, Tuktoyaktuk is about as far from most places as you can get.” Aw, hell—what was Fraser doing here? Besides obviously trying to get away from some swillpit of a citizen. “But might I point out, sir, that if indeed the world _is_ going to end on January 1, 2001, as you apparently believe it will, then one would assume that— _Canada_ will also be—er—ending.”

Ray rolled his eyes. Not even the turn of the next century yet, and already they were hearing from every nut in the greater Chicago area. Maybe he could build up enough vacation time to take off from January, 1999, to January, 2002—miss most of it. Maybe hide out somewhere safe, like, well, Tuktoyaktuk. In a little cozy cabin. With a really good friend.

“Fraser!” Ray called as he walked his prisoner toward his desk. His heart was hammering; did anybody notice?

“ _Oh!_ ” Fraser jumped as they passed.

“Hands off the Mountie, Aless,” Ray ordered. _Besides, that’s mine!_

He jumped, himself, when her free hand squeezed his left buttock. “Hands off the cop.” _Besides, that’s his._

As Ray seated her and cuffed her to the chair beside his desk, Aless licked the index finger of her free hand and gently laid the wet finger on Ray’s sleeve, emitting a small hiss that implied that he was pretty hot stuff. He couldn’t help but grin. “I appreciate the compliment, Aless.”

She turned and blew a kiss at Fraser, whose answering smile actually looked amused. “Thank you kindly,” he said.

“Yeah, Fraser, what can I do you for?” Ray asked.

“Er—just repaying the money I won the other—night.”

Oh, yeah. The money. Fraser would play poker for money if the winner gave it back at the end of the night. That last night, they’d—well, they’d forgotten.

“I—er—left it in your desk.”

Ray took a deep breath and tried to make his smile neutral, cheery. Don’t put anything into it that anybody might take wrong. “Thanks, Fraze.” He glanced at Aless, who was frowning at Elaine Besbriss over there talking to Jack Huey: probably critiquing Elaine’s Civilian Aid uniform.

“I wanted to—er—invite you to dinner, Ray, but something has—come up.”

Ray looked into the guileless blue eyes. Fraser’s way of telling him that it was okay for Ray to spend the evening with his family.

“That’s okay,” Ray said. “Maybe next time.”

“Well, my lunch hour is nearly over. I have to get back.”

“See you, Fraser.” Don’t watch the Mountie walk away; don’t admire the straightness of that back; don’t look longingly at the nape of his neck.

Ray took off his jacket and froze as he reached to put it on his chair. Something green was sticking out of the top drawer of his desk. He glanced around the squad room; nobody was looking. Aless was frowning at Jack Huey: probably critiquing his tie.

Ray’s hand gently tugged at the drawer, enough to see the red rose inside it, lying on a ten-dollar bill. His heart bounced like a yo-yo. A red Canadian rose. Aw, jeez.

He slid the money out and gently closed the desk drawer. Roses. Aw, gee, roses. He took a deep breath. Roses.

“ _Vec_ -chio!” Lieutenant Welsh’s bellow was something a bull elephant could envy.

Ray jumped. “Yes _sir!_ Right away, _sir!_ ” He tried to get his heart back into its normal rhythm, hastily stuffed the money into his pocket. “Hold the fort, hey, Aless?” He shook his forefinger at her when she patted him on the rump. Roses.

Welsh looked past Ray as he entered the Lieutenant’s office, as if he expected a second person to enter behind him.

“Yes, Lieutenant!” said Ray.

“Has Constable Fraser gone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I was afraid he was here to lure you into yet another of his odd adventures.”

“No, sir. No luring. Currently I am unlured.”

Welsh gave him one of those long looks, as if trying to decide whether or not Ray was being a smart ass. Ray held his breath, tried not to look as if he were holding his breath. Would Welsh notice something? Welsh grunted. “Good. And what have you to tell me about that high-profile young woman?”

“—Alessandra Willson,” Ray supplied helpfully. “She attempted to appropriate my wallet. Says she didn’t realize that that particular pocket was mine.” And, she’d been very complimentary about the pocket in question, though that wasn’t exactly relevant.

“Ah, yes. The mute pickpocket.”

“Not exactly mute, sir, just—eccentric in her forms of communication. I have reason to believe that she would like to share with us information on a credit card operation.”

“I see. And how will this speechless young woman share this information? Semaphores?”

Ray took a deep breath. “Aless has—ways of communicating.” That one of those ways had once involved Aless tracing words on Ray’s right thigh with a well-manicured fingernail, he thought wise to keep to himself.

“Good. Keep me apprised.”

“ _Yes_ , sir.” Ray edged toward the door.

Welsh let him get almost out the door. “And, Vecchio—”

“Yes, sir?”

“See if you can keep the Mountie out of our lives for a while.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Ray snorted. See if he could keep the Mountie out of their lives for a while. For pete’s sake—they weren’t joined at the hip! Ray swallowed a smile. Well, actually, sometimes they _were_ kind of joined at the hip. Just keep it out of the office, Vecchio. Roses. His heart turned over inside him. Red roses. He took a deep breath. Roses.

Sweetly distracted, he was almost to his desk before he realized that he was missing something.

“ _Hey!_ ” he shouted to the half-empty room. “Where’s my prisoner?” He fumbled in his back pocket. “And where’s my ten bucks?”

——

 _Some days_ , Fraser thought as he stretched out on his bed, _the city of Chicago could be—difficult_. Something about a constable in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police simply standing in dress uniform at his post outside the Canadian consulate seemed to inspire some infantile spirit in the city itself. Even two years in this noisy, crowded confusion hadn’t prepared him for a second shift like the one he had had today. For the jack hammers throbbing steadily for three hours, five meters from his post outside the consulate. For the busload of female Japanese teenagers, apparently gymnasts on tour, giggling non-stop for twenty-six minutes while posing beside him. For the ice-cream-wielding toddler untying his boots while her parents argued two meters away—and then dropping her cherry ice cream on Fraser’s foot to melt.

Of course, Fraser mused now as he settled himself for sleep, Diefenbaker had profited from the last incident, leaping on the unauthorized treat. Really, few things look more ridiculous than a man in dress uniform standing sternly at parade rest while a wolf licks ice cream off his untied boots.

He turned over in the narrow bed. Empty. The bed seemed so empty. A second shift had not exhausted him enough to distract him from the emptiness of his bed, from a yearning to have Ray lying naked beside him, radiating warmth. Ray, moaning beneath him, hips thrusting wildly against Fraser’s belly. Ray’s musky skin, tanged with salt. Ray’s mouth sliding up Fraser’s spine, his long fingers skimming every inch of Fraser’s body in sweet, teasing torture—

Halt! Fraser sat up, blinking into darkness, blinking away visions that were—well, too distracting for a man trying to sleep. He lay back, punching the pillow. Think of other things. Think of—

—Ray naked against a wall, eyes tender and mouth swollen from kisses deep and elemental as the night. Ray naked in the shower, slippery as a seal. Ray sprawled naked in the chair, languidly fondling his penis, wet mouth inviting a kiss, round buttocks inviting—

Diefenbaker pricked his ears at Fraser’s weak laugh. Stop it, Fraser. Recite the Canadian constitution. Review the details of the unsolved cases you left behind in the Northwest Territories. Remember the license plate numbers of the vehicles that passed the consulate today.

ANX 4454. JH 1065. The nape of a long neck—hazel eyes brightening at a joke—

Fraser felt every muscle loosen. Make a list; that was also good. Hand with a strong, broad palm and long fingers—the unique angle of an ear—mouth like an exotic flower—a walk that often seemed in rhythm with some inaudible music—

Fraser relaxed completely. The sweet slope of a buttock—dark brows arched over lively eyes—cleft in a gentle chin—bald spot that invited kissing—long nose with a grace all its own—

He barely noticed when sleep gently captured him.

——

 _Some evenings_ , Ray thought as he stretched out on his bed, _having a family could be—difficult_. Something about the Vecchio family seemed to ensure that every day would include shouting: at the dinner table, during an evening watching television, while everybody got ready for bed. Or, like tonight, all three.

He turned over in bed. Empty. It felt empty. The whole house, in fact, felt empty. No reason to, with all the other Vecchios in it, but it did.

Sometimes he wished he had a place of his own. He’d have Fraser over any time he wanted— His mind lingered over thoughts of what could happen then. Of Benny sprawled on the couch, eyes dreamy, mouth bruised, groin swollen from hours of slow necking. Benny in the shower, slippery as a salmon. Benny on his belly on the bed, legs spread wide, head turned to look over his shoulder with hungry eyes, firm ass lifting for Ray to—

Ray pressed the pillow over his face and screamed silently into it. Quit it, Vecchio! This was _no_ way to get any sleep!

He turned onto his side, punched the pillow.

Benny naked on the kitchen table, groaning Ray’s name at every thrust. Benny naked on his knees, working Ray’s cock with a hot and eager tongue. Benny naked on the bed, languid and sated—

NO! Ray turned onto his back, laughing weakly into his hands. _Quit it, Vecchio!_ Do the multiplication tables, backwards. Remember every license plate you’ve ever had run. Run your unsolved cases through your overheated brain.

Nine times nine was what—sixty-nine? ANX 4454; JH 1065. Nape of a strong neck—muscular hand with a broad, square palm—

Ray stretched languidly and felt his muscles begin to untense. Listing—oh, yeah, make a list. Dimples at the edge of a smile—mouth like a rose—eyes crinkled in delight at a joke—

Every muscle in Ray’s body relaxed. Spine straight as an Illinois road—fine hair on the inside of a muscular thigh—curve of an ear—

Sleep washed over him so gently that he barely noticed.

——

A snort in Fraser’s ear woke him. It was Diefenbaker, who yipped and looked toward the door.

“Well, it’s no wonder you can’t sleep,” Fraser grumbled. “All that ice cream.” He looked at the clock: 2:30 a.m. Diefenbaker was moving restlessly in front of the apartment door. “Surely you don’t think I’m going to _walk_ you at this hour.”

 _No_ , Diefenbaker was telling him, _there’s something going on here that isn’t right_.

Fraser came fully awake in an instant and automatically pulled on jeans and shirt and boots. The wolf rarely exaggerated and never gave alarm without good reason.

The door open, Diefenbaker dashed down the hall. Fraser followed as quickly and quietly as he could, down flight after flight of stairs, losing sight of the wolf just before they reached the basement.

“Diefenbaker?” Fraser called in a low voice.

Silence answered him. Silence—but not quite. Water trickled somewhere nearby.

“Diefenbaker?” A little louder, though it made no sense to call a deaf wolf. Fraser caught a whiff of—was that _alcohol?_

Diefenbaker came running from some section of the labyrinthine basement; and just then, behind the wolf, there was a flash of white-green light and the _whoosh!_ of fire taking hold. _Alcohol liquid white-green ignition means yellow phosphorus means arson_ , one part of Fraser’s brain registered as the rest of Fraser’s brain shouted, _This place will burn like a cord of fat wood; take control of the situation!_

Rescue; react—two words he’d drummed into himself since childhood.

Fraser’s hand reached automatically for the fire alarm. “Make sure everyone gets out!” he shouted to Diefenbaker, who streaked past him up the stairs.

Rescue started. Beside the fire alarm was a chemical extinguisher, which he yanked from its case. Control. Perhaps he could control the fire and give the other residents an extra measure of time.

He saw that it was hopeless when he saw the room where yellow phosphorus had reacted with air and ignited a pile of crumpled paper and plastic jugs of alcohol. Already, smoke hung so thick that he could barely see the flames. Heat poured from the room. Fraser coughed, tried to catch his breath.

On his belly on the floor now, under the pall of smoke, he could see two burning trailers of twisted paper leading from the ignition point to more small jugs. Hopeless to catch his breath, to find oxygen enough to do the required work. Never extinguish those trails of fire before they reach—

He had crawled halfway to the stairs when he heard the muffled _whump!_ of the first jug igniting. Then the second; and a roar as the fire seized the room. Flashover. Get out _now_.

The stairs were—where? He crawled. Sweat burned his eyes. Lungs strained for oxygen. His right hand was weighted down with something—the fire extinguisher. He let it go. The basement was black as a night without stars. His mind was on automatic, saying, _Stairs. Stairs. Stairs_.

Then a cold nose snuffled his face. Diefenbaker. The thought of the wolf returning for him, of the wolf then dying in the fire, revived Fraser. He grabbed a handful of fur and crawled after the wolf, letting him lead him.

Stairs. Fraser’s hand caressed the first tread. Stairs. On his feet, the stairs were the work of a moment; on his hands and knees under the smoke, the stairs were the work of a year.

Toiling up and up endlessly, seeking oxygen, trying to cough out the pollution of smoke. Diefenbaker licked his face, and Fraser went on.

Voices. A sharp _wuff!_ from Diefenbaker. Toiling up the stairs, lungs laboring. Voices.

And someone pulling him. “We gotcha, buddy,” filtered through a mask of some kind. Pulled. Carried. Carried past people shouting orders; carried past people crying in fear; carried out to where the cool breeze of the Chicago night was replaced by a mask full of what his lungs had been seeking.

He must have slept then; he opened his eyes to find a face with a long nose and large hazel eyes approximately fifteen millimeters from his own. Ray. Ray Vecchio. Fraser’s mouth fell into a smile. Ray. Ray had come to take care of him.

“Leave you alone _one night_ , and—” Ray’s eyes seemed to be watering, but his mouth was smiling.

Fraser chuckled; the chuckle became a cough that racked his body as his lungs fought to expel the remaining smoke. Ray looked panicked.

“Well, Constable Fraser, I see you’re back among us.” A pleasant-faced nurse came into the cubicle.

Emergency room. He was in an emergency room. Smoke. He pulled in oxygen from the mask over his nose and mouth.

The nurse smiled down at him. “Pulse strong and steady,” she said. “We like that in patients. The doctor will be in to see you in a minute.”

“Aw, gee,” Ray breathed when the nurse left. “Three a.m., and I gotta get a phone call about you almost dying in a fire.” He rubbed his bristly cheek and peered at Fraser through eyes puffy with sleep. “Aw, jeez, Benny—” His whisper was raw.

“Did everyone get out?” Fraser asked, pulling away the oxygen mask just enough to enunciate the words. His voice sounded rough.

Ray settled the mask back onto Fraser’s face. “Oh, yeah.”

Fraser pulled away the mask again. “Where’s Diefenbaker?”

Ray resettled it. “Vet’s. He’ll be fine; just a little smoke. We can pick him up later today.”

Fraser pulled the mask to one side. “Is the fire out?”

Ray settled it back. “Cleaning up even as we speak.”

Fraser lifted the mask. “It was arson, Ray.”

Now Ray very firmly took the mask from Fraser’s hand and settled it back over Fraser’s mouth and nose, leaving his hand on it. “Tell us later,” he said.

He glanced around at the curtains that enclosed the bed, then pressed a quick kiss on Fraser’s forehead. Fraser caught his breath, looked up at Ray, whose face was scarlet.

Ray smiled crookedly down at Fraser, then frowned. Then he snapped his fingers. “You’re _dirty!_ _That’s_ why you look so strange! You’re actually dirty! First time! Son of a gun!” He looked elated.

Fraser looked at him. Dirty? First time? Whatever could Ray be talking about? Fraser closed his eyes. Dear as that man was, he sometimes seemed to talk in his own code—some sort of American-city-detective idiom. Really—a little soot shouldn’t provoke _that_ kind of response. Giddiness—that was what it was. Just—giddiness that a loved one was all right.

Fraser opened his eyes to find Ray grinning down at him. Really—sometimes the man was just—well, silly.

——

Silly. Ray was feeling just—silly. Well, giddy, actually: it was a relief that Fraser was okay, after that heart-halting phone call. Him lying in that hospital bed, pale under the soot, sucking oxygen from a mask— Breathe, Vecchio; breathe. The Mountie is going to be okay. Don’t think about him not being okay.

It was a relief that everybody had gotten out of the burning apartment building in one piece. And it was a relief, Ray had to admit, that Dief would be okay; Ray didn’t ever again want to see that wolf—or any other wolf, for that matter—collapsed on the ground, chest heaving, zonked by smoke.

He took a swig of coffee, barely noting the taste and texture that told him the machine was on the fritz again. Giddy. Relief was most of it. And lack of sleep. And, yes, knowledge that the laws of the universe applied even to Mounties, that even Fraser would get sooty if life worked hard enough at it. But mostly relief.

He riffled the pages of the file lying on his desk. He should be working on it. He should be taking statements from those witnesses in the Sandoval case. He should be out tracking down witnesses to the Decker homicide. He should be following up those leads Alessandra Willson had given him after Javitz had hauled her back up to the squad room and Ray had given her a piece of his mind; funny how different she looked without the wig and makeup, with his good jacket on over her own clothes, but why on earth she’d thought she’d slip unnoticed out of the station house was beyond him.

Yes, Ray should be doing a lot of things. A whole lot of things. But he knew it was hopeless; he knew what he would end up doing; he knew what he’d be up to the minute a certain Mountie was sprung from the hospital.

He sighed, picked up the phone, and dialed the arson squad.

——

 _Baby_. Fraser glared at Diefenbaker, curled on Ray’s back seat and looking up at him. Big baby—making Ray carry him out from the veterinarian’s office. Ray had murmured solicitously into the wolf’s ear almost all the way to the car and had a bag of Diefenbaker’s favorite doughnuts ready. Fraser, however, was of sterner stuff and was having none of the wolf’s self-indulgent histrionics. And he would get away with none of this while they were spending the night at the Vecchios’ house. Fraser said as much in the look with which he answered Diefenbaker’s most appealing expression: _You’re an Arctic wolf, for god’s sake; act like one. You big baby_.

“Tomorrow Elaine’ll run those prints you took off that burned junkie. Probably been brought in for prostitution or worse some time. Kinda sloppy, nobody following up on trying to ID her before this. Jeez, that’s something I don’t ever want to have happen to me. Or anybody else, for that matter. Burning.” Ray shuddered and looked over at Fraser. “Oh, god, Fraser, that almost— Oh, _god_ , I couldn’t stand it.”

Fraser automatically put a hand on Ray’s arm, squeezed it reassuringly. The image of the silent, bandaged figure in the hospital bed flashed before his eyes; he shook it away. Better not to dwell on what had almost happened to him and to Diefenbaker; if he were unable to focus, he would be no good to anyone. There were distractions enough in his life: the main one was gripping the wheel of the Buick Riviera with white-knuckled hands.

“—so, Pinowski agreed to let us see the file; the squad’s got so many cases on now they really can’t handle much more. You sure you’re okay?” Ray’s hazel eyes narrowed in concern.

“Of course, Ray.” Just a little throat-clearing.

“Well—”

Amazing how much suspicion Ray could express in just a glance.

“Really, I _am_.”

“I’m not so sure they shoulda let you out.”

“I’m _fine_ , Ray.” Really, he was; were they going to have this argument every time Fraser visited the hospital?

“Well—” Ray shot him another suspicious glance. “—so, anyway, they’re working the scene today. Your statement helped a lot—that and the fact that you got the fire fighters on the scene so quickly. Damage, but not as bad as it could have been.”

As comfort, Fraser thought as the Buick Riviera pulled up to 221 West Racine, that was relative. His breath caught in shock at the sight of his home: windows and burglar bars broken out in the basement and on the first floor; front door hanging askew; everything covered in a thin coating of soot, and everywhere the stench of burning. The building superintendent, Dennis, stood on the sidewalk as close as he dared, looking at the building with a lugubrious expression on his long face.

“Whatta mess,” he said by way of greeting. “Mr. Taylor’s men were down here earlier; had big grins on their faces, like they was at a party. We may have some trouble here.”

Fraser’s heart skipped a beat. Only a few months ago he’d congratulated himself that the people in the building were safe from a rapacious landlord bent on razing the building for condominiums. The last four years of Dennis’s ten-year lease lay between the tenants and a miserable fate. But if the building were declared unsafe— He filed that thought to focus on later.

“Oh, good,” Ray said cheerfully. “The doublemint twins.”

Fraser frowned. That the two women approaching them were not twins was obvious: the strawberry blonde was definitely taller than the blonde, and the women in no way resembled one another. They were dressed alike, however: in heavy coveralls with pockets lumpy with hammers and flashlights and notebooks and evidence bags, in boots and gloves and hard hats, and in a layer of wet ashes and soot that not only saturated their clothing, but smudged their faces. And they were alike in their enthusiasm at greeting Ray, each woman depositing a kiss on his cheek that left carbon.

“Fraser, I would like you to meet Detectives Dorothy Nevitte and Eliza Southfield.”

The blonde whacked him lightly with her hard hat.

“—Southworth. Eliza Southworth,” Ray amended.

“No wonder you never called again,” Detective Southworth said with a grin.

“Ladies, this is Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”

“I’m not here in an—official—” Fraser halted his automatic response to Ray’s introduction of him; perhaps he _was_ actually here in an official capacity, as this was his home.

“Oh, _you’re_ the guy,” Detective Nevitte said. “Nice work, finding the scene so quickly. And good try at putting it out yourself. But next time, keep your head down, okay? Inhale a lot less smoke that way.”

“I’ll—remember that.” Fraser paused, seeing the grin on Detective Nevitte’s face. Was she joking? Sometimes he couldn’t tell. “Actually, Diefenbaker should take the credit for getting us onto the scene so quickly.”

“Oh, yeah—” Detective Southworth said, looking at Detective Nevitte.

“—the wolf!” they chorused.

“Where is he?” asked Detective Nevitte.

“He’s—napping,” Fraser said firmly.

But Diefenbaker had a sixth sense when it came to those who wished to coo over him, and he frisked up to be fussed over by the arson team.

Fraser glared at him. Big ham.

“So, whatcha got?” Ray asked.

“Well, phosophorus, as Constable Fraser here already told us; and Emma sniffed out a couple other locations where accelerants had been been applied. We’ve had a couple of these recently; I’ll have to check the files.”

“Emma?” Ray said. “That dog is fifty if she’s a day. Aren’t you ever going to let that dog retire?”

“Emma has the best nose in the city!” Detective Southworth protested. “And she _loves_ her work!”

“In fact—” Detective Nevitte said, eyeing Diefenbaker, “I bet she and the wolf would have puppies that would be _great_ arson dogs.”

“No!” Fraser said. “Uh—no thank you,” he amended when the others looked at him. “I don’t think—” Ray appeared to be stifling a smile. “Would it be possible to enter my apartment and pick up a few—things?”

“Uh—sure!” Detective Nevitte’s eyes were merry. “We can only give you ten minutes, though. Just be careful on the stairs.”

He was careful on the stairs, though not as quick as he would have been some other day.

“Gee, I don’t like the sound of that wheezing,” Ray said.

“It’s not wheezing, Ray, it’s—” Well, it certainly wasn’t _wheezing_.

The empty building was depressingly silent, and the stench of the quenched fire made him queasy. Fraser grabbed his knapsack, grabbed some clothing, grabbed the dress uniform he would have to wear to work. Did he have time to get any of his father’s journals?

He turned to find Ray standing at the door, arms loaded with the journals. “Minute and a half to go,” he said.

A quick kiss. Fraser smiled as he followed Ray down the stairs. Ray. He could always count on Ray.

Outside, Fraser found himself stopping to frown at the front of the building. Graffiti. Something odd about the graffiti. “R 21:8”—something he hadn’t seen before.

“Huh!” said Ray. “Funny kind of tagging.”

“Oh, we see that kind of thing a lot,” said Detective Nevitte. “You see all kinds of tagging in this part of Chicago.”

Fraser frowned. It reminded him of something. No matter; the answer would come to him. But he hoped it would come to him soon: he sensed it was important.

“Did you—date— _both_ of them?” he asked Ray as the car pulled into traffic.

“Not at the same time.”

“Ah.” But he had dated them both.

“What ‘ah’? I’m not dating them any more.”

“Ah.” But he had dated them.

“Look, Fraser. There ain’t no ‘ah.’ Me and the twins are just good friends.”

“Of course, Ray.”

“Are you _jealous?_ ”

“Of course not, Ray!” Really, why would he say such a thing? And, if it were true, why would it be so humorous?

“You _are!_ You _are_ jealous! Son of a gun! You’re _jealous!_ ”

Oh, this was just— “No, I’m _not_.”

“Fraser, them and me were over a long time ago. I don’t even have their numbers any more. Besides, Elaine told me they’re dating other guys. Southworth’s dating a Michael somebody or other, in the eleventh precinct. And Nevitte’s working her way through the fourteenth. Nothing to be jealous about at all.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Of course.”

“Really, I’m not jealous.”

“Right.”

Well, he wasn’t. Not at all.

Not _now_.

——

Dinner was dinner, with Fraser only a couple times getting that caribou-caught-in-the-headlights look that meant he was going into Vecchio-family-dinner-conversation overload. And Vecchio- family-dinner overload, Ray realized: Ma urged on him seconds and thirds and fourths of everything, giving him her “Don’t you like it?” routine when he tried to refuse. Frannie eyeing him as if she was a wolf and he was a donut wasn’t helping. _Down girl_ , Ray thought happily, _he’s taken. And he’s mine_.

After dinner, Ray took Fraser and Dief out for a walk that was probably four times longer than usual; but, hey, it was nice night to walk. Something—the nice night, probably—made him feel like little champagne bubbles were popping inside; he had to keep reminding himself to quit grinning like an idiot. Ray showed off the old hangouts and the old dives: where he’d gotten his first kiss, where he’d surrendered his virginity to Denise Ferrara, where he’d bought the rubber he’d carried in his wallet for three years after that. By the time they got back, everybody was going to bed.

While Fraser shaved, Ray did his nightly check of the house. _Typical_ , he thought with rueful amusement. _I finally get a whole, authorized night with him, and we can’t do a damn thing because everybody’s here_. Fraser would never make love with the whole Vecchio clan in earshot and—Ray had to admit—he’d never be able to either. Just as well; Fraser’d had a hard day. But too bad even sharing the bed was unlikely.

He checked the doors and the windows with special care; Fraser was in the house, and Ray’s responsibilities were that much more. Every person who really mattered was in this house, he realized happily. Just everybody.

Back in his room, Ray changed into pajamas and locked up his gun. He sprawled back on the bed just as Fraser came in. They stared at each other for a long moment.

 _Shy_ , thought Ray. He reached over and turned out the light so Fraser could undress in modest darkness.

Fraser paused and fumbled with the doorknob, as if locking it; paused again and strode around the bed to tug down the window shades; paused again and reached over to the light.

And clicked it back on.

Ray knew his mouth was open, but he was powerless to close it. Fraser looked down at him. He straightened; Ray could almost see every vertebra lining up. Then Fraser looked away and was unbuttoning his shirt, removing it, hanging it up carefully, buttoning all the buttons. And he was tugging at his undershirt, lifting it higher, higher, slowly pulling it over his head. Folding it seemed to take him forever.

Ray caught his breath. Benny was giving him a gift. They couldn’t make love, but Benny was giving himself in the only way possible.

Ray slid up to lean against the headboard and watch in languid appreciation as Benny undressed. He felt caught in some warm, silent dream.

Benny moved slowly, carefully, folding each piece of clothing and putting it away; except for a slight flush and unsteady hands, he could have been alone. Ray let his gaze linger over every inch of skin as it was uncovered, watching the play of muscles in Benny’s back, the subtle shift of lamp light over the lean body. It wasn’t a polished performance: Benny’s back was stiffer than Ray had ever seen it off duty, and sometimes he speeded up and then seemed to consciously slow his movements. Once or twice toward the end, he glanced at Ray; each time the glance lengthened.

He stripped completely and stood before Ray in the lamp light, a statue of flushed alabaster with shy and tender eyes. The only sound in the room seemed to be the beating of Ray’s heart.

Then Benny picked up fresh boxer shorts, slipped them on, and turned off the light, before raising the shades.

Ray’s eyes followed Benny as he settled himself on the floor between the window and Ray’s bed; he found himself languidly wrapping himself in his blanket, picking up the pillow, and turning himself to stretch out with his head at the foot so he could lie facing Benny. On his side as close to the edge of the bed as he dared, he gazed down at Benny gazing up.

They lay for a silent moment, looking at each other in the dim light coming from the street.

“Did I kiss you goodnight?” Ray whispered.

“No,” Fraser whispered back, “I don’t believe you did.”

Ray slid off the bed and knelt over Fraser, looking down into the clean beauty of that face before he lowered his lips to Fraser’s. It was good, solid, simple kiss, as thorough as he dared.

He drew away and smiled down at Fraser. “Thank you,” he said, his voice as quiet as a breath, though what he was thanking Fraser for—whether it was for the strip or for the kiss or for allowing Ray to take care of him—Ray wasn’t sure.

“You’re quite welcome, Ray.” Fraser’s voice was no louder than Ray’s.

A quick tuck of the blanket around Fraser, a quick kiss at the corner of Fraser’s mouth, and Ray stretched back out on the bed, his head pillowed on his crooked arm so he could see the floor. Fraser was looking up at him, lying very still, as if unwilling to disturb the blanket Ray had tucked around him. Something glowed in his eyes that made Ray’s breath catch in his throat. They looked at each other across the darkness until sleep took them.

Moonlight woke Ray—or maybe it was Fraser quietly moving around in the bedroom. Ray blinked for a minute at the moonlight flooding the room, then blinked at the time—4 a.m.—then blinked at Fraser and sat up. He said the first thing that came into his head.

“That graffiti’s bothering me,” he whispered.

“It puzzles me, too,” Fraser whispered back. He was standing at the foot of the bed, six inches from Ray; Ray looked up at the Mountie’s face, shrouded in shadow. Heat seemed to roll off Fraser’s body.

“I wish we were the only people in this house,” Ray whispered.

“I—I want to make love to you in the moonlight.” Fraser’s whisper sounded raw.

Gee, Fraser really knew how to wake a guy up! Ray suddenly felt as jumpy as if he had a gallon of coffee running through his veins. His feet hit the floor, and his legs stood him up, right next to Fraser.

They stared at each other in the reflected glow of the moonlight; and then their mouths met. Ray stepped in close as his lips melted into Benny’s kiss. Jolted by the heat of that other mouth, his brain dimly registered the way Benny’s hands cradled each side of his face, then slid languorously down each side of his neck, skimmed his shoulders, and smoothed their way down his arms before cupping his ass firmly, possessively.

When Ray pulled out of the kiss, his knees were tottery, and there was a roaring in his ears. He stared at Benny, mesmerized by the reflected heat in those eyes, and his knees tried to buckle. He grabbed Benny’s waist to keep himself from falling.

Benny captured Ray’s mouth with his own, a firm kiss that was less invitation than it was affirmation. A good kiss; a good here-you-are-and-I-get-to-kiss-you-lucky-lucky-me kind of kiss. Of their own accord, Ray’s hands slid up Benny’s back and into his thick hair. Oh, yeah—here Benny was, and Ray got to kiss him. Lucky, lucky Ray.

They were breathless when the kiss was over; Benny’s smile was brighter than the moon.

“Good _morning_ ,” he whispered.

Ray laughed silently at him. Oh, yeah, _good_ morning.

A firm, quick parting kiss then, as their hands let go of each other; and Benny turned—and walked right into the edge of the bed.

Ray watched the all-too-familiar whacked-shin dance with a mixture of sympathy and of pride that he’d so rattled the Mountie. A kiss that had burned out all the cobwebs and made Benny completely forget himself. Not bad for 4 a.m.

He started to the dresser to get his socks and cracked his knee right on the bedpost.

——

After several days of almost-summer heat, spring had cooled into something kinder to a man standing guard in wool serge, a man whose blood sang with the memory of hazel eyes tender in the moonlight and of a soft mouth hotter than the sun.

Moonlight had awakened Fraser that morning—moonlight and the puzzle of the odd graffiti. And the presence of Ray Vecchio. He’d focused on the first and the last, feasting his eyes on the sight of Ray sleeping in the moonlight on the bed just above him. How he’d yearned to waken that sleeping figure the way it should be awakened—

And the kiss: the thin pajamas sliding over Ray’s buttocks; the heat of Ray’s groin igniting his own— It had taken all Fraser’s self control to keep himself from stripping that lithe body, from stretching Ray face down on the bed and gently ravishing him again and again. Images swam through his mind: Ray’s breathing something between a gasp and a moan; Ray’s hands pleating the bottom sheet; Ray’s firm buttocks lifting for Fraser’s—

STAND DOWN!

His mind emptied immediately and automatically began to catalog the contents of the street in front of him. One blue-green Chevrolet Impala one white Ford Escort one ultramarine Saturn SC2 two black BMWs one taupe Mitsubishi a woman swearing at a parking meter a man with a briefcase two teenage boys staring at three teenage girls with skirts that were surprisingly short one dark-green Lincoln Continental double parked two cars down—

There. His heart rate was back to normal; his breathing was back to normal; his concentration was what it needed to be for the job. Fortunate that he had schooled himself in keeping focus; Ray was the sweetest distraction the world could provide, but Fraser could not let himself be thus distracted. Better to focus on the problem of the graffiti.

Automatically, he watched those passing near the consulate, examining them and their behavior for possible criminal intent. The rest of his mind worked on the problem of the graffiti. It would come to him. It would take some time, but the answer would come to him eventually.

——

Arson photos. When he raised his eyes to the ceiling, he saw arson photos. When he closed his eyes, he saw arson photos. Ray had been at it since dawn, coming in with Fraser. The drive in, Fraser’s warm hand resting casually on Ray’s thigh—nice. Sometime he’d drive them out of the city, to some place where they could park and enjoy the moonlight on each other. Nice.

For a while, Fraser had sat here with him, going through file after file after file with a swift efficiency that Ray could only envy. He himself had no idea what he was looking for, tended to catch himself dwelling on little details: the char pattern on antique wallpaper; the tiny Adidas sneaker beneath a smoke-clouded wall outlet; the way a plastic jug had melted into a puddle shaped like Florida.

Ray rubbed sandy eyes and went out to kick the coffee machine into submission. That graffiti. Something about that graffiti. He’d seen it in several of the photos.

“Yes, ma’am, I understand your need to plan ahead for the big event,” Huey was saying into the phone. “After all, the new millennium is just a few years away. Just give us a call when the spaceship picks you up. Yes, of _course_ someone will water your plants.”

Back at his desk, Ray sorted out the folders with pictures showing the odd tagging, put them in chronological order, and went through them again. Five in a cluster a month ago; three this week.

“I 5:24,” a month ago on the wall of a storefront church on North Washington.

“L 12:49,” on a warehouse on East Central.

“D 32:22,” on a mom and pop grocery store in the 300 block of West Cicero.

“I 66:15,” on the sidewalk outside an abandoned store on East Kimball.

“T 2 1:8,” at a New Age shop on North Kedzie.

“M 3:10,” three nights ago, on an abandoned women’s clinic in the 900 block of East Cermak.

“J 2:3,” also three nights before, at a junkie jungle on East Cross where that addict had been pretty badly burned.

And “R 21:8,” at Fraser’s.

Odd way of tagging: too many initials.

He spread the photos out on his desk. He looked at them. He looked at them.

——

Too many initials to be the usual sort of tagging. Fraser had noticed similar graffiti in a few files he’d looked at with Ray. “L.” “T.” “J.” “R.” A group of vandals?

——

No—not a group. The colons were what bothered Ray. Something about the numbers and those colons. They looked—

——

—familiar. Numbers before and after a colon. Fraser thought about where he had seen numbers before and after a colon. Page numbers in a list of articles?

——

No—not page numbers. That “T 2 1:8” bothered Ray. It didn’t look right.

He buried his face in his hands. Was he reading too much into spacing? Into punctuation? But his mind wouldn’t stop.

Wouldn’t be tagging; no reason to spray paint page numbers, even if they had looked right. Numbers before and after a colon, like—like—like verses—

——

—Bible verses. And initial—

——

—the book. Book, chapter, colon, verse.

Ray stared at the photos. The idea was so intriguing, felt so right, that he found himself reluctant to move, to investigate further and risk disproving it.

But he couldn’t just sit here. Bible. He needed a bible.

Ray pushed back from his desk and looked around the squad room. “Elaine!” he called.

When he told the civilian aide what he wanted, he got that look she often gave him—the one where she seemed to suspect he was sending her on a snipe hunt.

But she found him a Bible. In Jack Huey’s desk.

Elaine shrugged, and Ray stifled a grin. It was sweet: Huey with the word of God so close to hand.

Ray sat at his desk and flipped to the front of the paper-covered volume. King James. With an alphabetical list of the books.

Only one book began with the letter “I.” His hands shook as he turned to the appropriate page, to the chapter, to the verse.

“I 5:24.” The storefront church.

“Therefore as the fire devoureth the stubble, and the flame consumeth the chaff, _so_ their root shall be as rottenness, and their blossom shall go up as dust: because they have cast away the law of the Lord of hosts, and despised the word of the Holy One of Israel.” Isaiah 5:24.

Ray sat back and filled his lungs with sweet Chicago air. Fire. Flame. _Bin_ -go.

——

Fire. Verses full of flame and fire. Of _course_.

Fraser a deep breath and relaxed. Both the breath and the relaxation were imperceptible to the untrained eye, but he felt better than he’d felt in two days.

——

By 4:15, Ray had decoded the rest of the graffiti. A collection of fire and flame and blazing inferno that, in some cases, was almost appropriate:

“L 12:49,” the warehouse: “I am come to send fire on the earth.”

“D 32:22,” the grocery store: “For a fire is kindled in mine anger, and shall burn unto the lowest hell, and shall consume the earth with her increase, and set on fire the foundations of the mountains.”

“I 66:15,” the abandoned store: “For, behold, the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with flames of fire.”

“T 2 1:8,” the New Age shop: “ … in flaming fire taking vengeance on them that know not God … ”

“M 3:10,” the clinic site: “And now also the axe is laid unto the root of the trees: therefore every tree which bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.”

“J 2:3,” the junkie jungle: “A fire devoureth before them; and behind them a flame burneth: the land _is_ as the garden of Eden before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness; yea, and nothing shall escape them.”

And “R 21:8,” Fraser’s apartment building:

“ ‘But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death,’ ” Ray read aloud to Fraser, striding up to Ray’s desk. He grinned up at the Mountie. “So, Benny, which of those are you?”

——

“Bible verses.” Leftenant Welsh sat back in his chair. “Unique.”

“Actually, leftenant, there have been a number of cases in which—” Fraser silenced himself when he saw the expression in the leftenant’s eyes. Perhaps later.

“One doesn’t expect this level of—spiritual fervor among Chicago arsonists,” Welsh went on, as if Fraser had not spoken. “In fact, one doesn’t expect this level of _literacy_ among Chicago arsonists.”

“Tell him about the moon.” Ray was elbowing Fraser.

“Ah. Yes. Perhaps by accident, the timing of these arsons appears to coincide with the dates of the full moon,” Fraser explained. “Judging from the five incidents from last month and the three from this which we feel we can definitely credit to this particular—”

“Two each night,” Ray broke in, “over the five nights when the moon is at the fullest.”

“Told you so,” Detective Nevitte said to Detective Southworth.

“This is one perp; this is not every arsonist in Chicago,” Detective Southworth replied. Some argument seemed to be going on here to which Fraser was not privy.

A look from Welsh silenced them. “So there should have been a second fire the night Constable Fraser’s building was hit. And there should have been two last night.”

Detective Nevitte opened a folder. “The night of the fire on Racine, there was a fire at a reputed gang hangout where similar graffiti was painted. Another verse from Revelations: ‘And they went up on the breadth of the earth, and compassed the camp of the saints about, and the beloved city: and fire came down from God out of heaven, and devoured them.’ ”

“Appropriate,” commented the leftenant.

“We can identify only one possibility from last night, a known crack house where the fire didn’t get properly started. Proverbs, this time: ‘Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned? Can one go upon hot coals, and his feet not be burned?’ However, there were two other fires in wooden structures which burned completely. Perhaps our arsonist targeted one of them.”

“That’s three nights down and two to go,” Welsh said. “Do we have a suspect?”

“We picked up a beautiful set of prints at the site where the junkie was injured,” said Detective Southworth. “We haven’t matched it with any known arsonist. However, we ran the prints through AFIS and confirmed a match. One Lemuel Zenk, thirty-two, charged with assault on a street preacher two years ago. Preacher elected not to press charges.”

“And this is a firm identification.”

“Exact on fourteen points.”

Welsh grunted. “And what does Mr. Zenk have to say for himself?”

Suddenly, the three detectives seemed to find great interest in every object in Welsh’s office but the leftenant himself. Fraser cleared his throat.

“Well, you see, leftenant,” he said, “Mr. Zenk appears to have no known current—address—”

He felt his gaze caught and held by Welsh’s eyes, which looked as ancient and sorrowful as the eyes of a turtle. The leftenant regarded him for a moment, then turned his attention to the other three.

“And what did Lieutenant Pinowski say about this turn of evidence?”

Detective Nevitte hunched her shoulders. “He kinda got this— _look_ on his face … ”

“I see. So what you’re saying is that we have a suspect we cannot find, who has no priors in this particular type of crime and no apparent motive, and who may in all innocence have left his prints at the crime scene; and we have only two nights before our perpetrator goes underground for another month.”

Silence.

“That—pretty much sums it up, sir,” said Ray.

Silence.

“Evidence. We need evidence,” said Welsh.

“Yes, sir,” said Ray.

Silence.

“Go and find some,” Welsh said as slowly and clearly as if he were speaking to small children.

Evidence. Detectives Nevitte and Southworth vanished into the arson squad’s office to reference and cross-reference and index and cross-index the information in the computer files until, as Detective Southworth put it, either the computer told them everything or it fried itself. Their glee at either prospect seemed equal.

But when Ray heard Fraser’s idea for their own focus, his dismay was—

“ _No!_ ” he said. “ _What?_ No! You gotta be— You can’t be serious!”

But even he had to bow to reason—and to a list of the contents of the dumpster in the alley shared by the Hickory Stick BBQ Palace and the building where Zenk’s prints had been found. The usual paper and boxes and meat trimmings; and also—Fraser verified at the site over Ray’s protests that this was dis _gusting_ , there were all those _germs_ —leftover chicken, ribs, vegetables, and bread, all placed at the top of the bin and all carefully wrapped.

The owner of the Hickory Stick BBQ Palace seemed hot, exhausted, and extremely put out. “Yeah, _I_ leave that stuff there for them homeless people,” she said. “That against the law? You got a warrant?”

“No, but we can get one.” Ray, as usual, was ready to spring into action on the side of the law. “Creating an attractive nuisance. How does that grab ya?”

“Look—I just put it out there. ‘Cause it’s really garbage. What happens to it after that ain’t up to me. They get it, fine. They don’t get it, fine. They got their schedule, they got their route, people come through here, pick up what they want to eat, then the garbage hauler come through and get the rest. All I know is, I sleep fine at night, ‘cause I know I done my best by them.”

“You know, they got people who pick up restaurant leftovers every night and take ‘em to shelters to distribute.”

“Yeah,” said the woman, “but these people I feed, they in _my_ neighborhood.” She drew herself up, looking as determined as Boadicea leading the Iceni against the Romans, as indomitable as Fraser’s own grandmother confronting a book vandal. “That makes ‘em _my_ homeless. And I take care of my own. Them other people, they just ain’t mine.”

 _Well put_ , thought Fraser.

——

 _What was it about stakeouts_ , Ray thought, _that brought out the worst in Chicago weather?_ Days and days of 70 degrees—and now when he had to just sit in a car all night with Fraser, spring plays coy and lets winter slip back in. And him without his gloves.

He cupped his hands over the lukewarm cup of coffee on the dashboard of the Riv, trying to pretend that there was heat enough to warm them, and glanced at Fraser. Look at him, sitting there in his leather jacket, looking as toasty as if there was a fire under the seat. Probably felt that way, given his standards. Probably not up for snuggling to keep a guy from freezing to death; no distractions on a stakeout.

Ray sighed. His breath drifted in a little cloud. Perfect. Sitting here waiting for whatever homeless person liked to wander down this alley at around 2 a.m. and eat out of the Hickory Stick BBQ Palace dumpster, on the off chance they might have seen something three nights ago. Sitting here perfectly still on a night so cold you could see your breath. Just perfect.

In the back seat, Dief put his muzzle out the slightly rolled-down window and whuffled the air. Jeesh—even the wolf had a fur coat to keep him warm. And then Fraser reached over and took his right hand, rubbing it between his own. He brought it to his mouth, and Ray felt hot, moist air breathed on his icy fingers, once, twice, three times. Fingers being massaged into warmth.

Muscles suddenly limp as warm caramel, Ray looked at Fraser, watching the alley through the windshield of the Riv while he massaged Ray’s hand, breathed on it again, rubbed it some more. Did he realize he was doing it? Was it sexier if he didn’t, if it was just an automatic, unconscious act because Ray’s hands were cold? Those warm, strong hands cradling his hand so tenderly, bringing it to Fraser’s mouth—oh, he was dizzy.

Then Dief wuffed, and Fraser pointed down the dim alley. “There.”

The figure hardly looked human as it shuffled along in the darkness, pushing a shopping cart. Something on her clothing glittered in the light of the full moon. Ray’s heart sank. How could they ever get anything coherent out of that shambling bundle of rags? Only in Fraser’s world would she be any use as a witness.

The woman didn’t seem to notice them as they walked toward her, Dief padding ahead of them through the shadows. The stench of the burned building seemed stronger in the chilly night.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Fraser said.

She was trudging on, oblivious. Wrapped over her head and around her shoulders was some sort of shawl with big spangles that caught the cool light of the moon, the warm light of an amber streetlight. Her lips moved ceaselessly; Ray strained, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

Fraser stepped in front of the shopping cart. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

She stopped then and peered at them, eyes bleary under the sequins on the shawl. “Zwoop, zwoop, zwoop!” she cried, her hands circling in the air.

 _Oh, great_ , thought Ray. _This is gonna be_ real _informative_.

But Fraser was smiling at her, and Ray could see a struggle in her face as she looked in turn at him and Fraser.

“Michael,” she said thickly, touching Ray’s arm.

“Gabriel,” she said, touching Fraser. “An-gel. Zwoop, zwoop, zwoop, zwoop, zwoop!” Her circling hands rose like grubby wings.

Pretty shabby angel, Ray thought ruefully. Except for Fraser—some beautiful angel he’d make. Bathed in the light of pale silver and paler gold, under the halo of the Mountie hat, Fraser was smiling at the woman, warmly and—Ray thought—expectantly.

“Did you see this building burn?” he asked.

Her face twisted. “Satan,” she said. To Ray’s surprise, she was clutching his sleeve. “Satan, satan, satan, satan!”

He tried not to show his distaste as he disengaged her hand. The stink that radiated from her sparkling rags was almost worse than the building.

“We’ll find him,” Fraser said gently. “Can you help us?”

Her bleary eyes fixed on him. “Waited.” She dug in the cart and pulled out a tiny book. She handed it to Fraser. “God say wait.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Gabriel,” she told Fraser. “Michael,” she informed Ray; and she was pushing her cart on down the alley.

Ray took out his handkerchief and spread it to take the book from Fraser. Probably useless, fingerprint-wise, but no sense taking chances. Look closer in the car.

They started back for the Riv.

“Ray,” Fraser said, “you’re more familiar with angel lore than am I. I know that Michael led the angels who defeated Satan and his army, but refresh my memory about Gabriel.”

“Gabriel announced things. Explained what was goin’ on.” Ray smiled to himself: he got to be an angel who’d be a pretty good cop, but Fraser—well, Fraser got to be the pontificating angel. Nothing on the Mountie’s face betrayed that he thought there was anything humorous about that, but Ray found himself grinning as he got into the car.

“So, basically I’m the angel who gets the bad guy, while you’re the angel who tells people Inuit stories,” he went on. “She’s more with it than I thought.”

Fraser opened his mouth to say something, but Ray quickly turned on the dome light in the Riv to examine their find. It was a little Bible, one of those small New Testaments the Gideons sometimes handed out on the sidewalk. This one was well thumbed, the gilt on its green cover tarnished.

A card was tucked inside, and Ray shook the book open so they could read it under the dome light. It was a business card. They saw the back first; on it was written a list of addresses. Ray shook the card over so they could see the front.

“Taylor Enterprises,” it read.

“Hey, _hey_ ,” Ray said.

He smiled at Fraser, turned off the dome light, and celebrated their evidence with a good, solid kiss. Oh, yes, Ray Vecchio, you are in Fraser’s world, where bag ladies hold the key to a case. You have entered the Mountie Zone.

Fraser’s hands were cradling the back of Ray’s head, were pulling him close for another kiss. The Mountie Zone, where the front seat of ‘72 Riv was a palace fit for a god with eyes the color of a cloudless sky.

The Mountie Zone, where a wolf whuffle in your ear and a cold nose on your cheek jolted you back to the reality of an arsonist on the loose and evidence that needed to be processed.

He glanced irritatedly at Dief and turned the key in the ignition.

Darn wolves, anyway.

——

“I have all sorts of business dealings,” said John Taylor. “My card could have come into that woman’s possession any number of ways.” He looked at Fraser. “You people are very fortunate; I’ve been told by the building inspector that that particular property is still quite sound. A little work, and you all can move right back in.” His voice sounded hearty, but his eyes were calculating the loss.

“Good!” said Ray. “I’d hate to see such a fine old Chicago landmark razed for condominiums.” Fraser looked sharply at him, knowing what Ray really thought of the building and its inhabitants; “mutants” was one of the nicer words he had used to describe Fraser’s neighbors. Ray’s mouth was smiling, but his eyes were hard as granite.

Fraser studied Mr. Taylor’s face as Ray flipped a few pages on his small notebook. Annoyance, quickly smoothed over.

“Would you happen to be acquainted with a—” Ray flipped a few more pages, as if finding his notes. “—Lemuel Zenk?”

An almost imperceptible start, covered by a backward movement, as if Mr. Taylor’s desk chair had suddenly lurched back.

“I know many people,” Mr. Taylor said smoothly. “Zenk—may be one of them. I can’t be certain.”

“One more thing,” said Ray. “Do you own the property at—” He flipped through more pages. “—116 Nassau?”

A lift of the eyebrows; a contemptuous quirk of the lips. “Detective Vecchio, I—can’t keep in mind _every_ piece of property this corporation owns. I’m sure your own records can tell you whether or not I own that particular property.”

Ray smiled at him. “Oh, I’m sure they will.”

“Well, if that’s it.” Mr. Taylor rose, signalling the end of the interview.

“I’m sure we’ll be in touch,” Ray was saying, with an insincere smile that reminded Fraser of Diefenbaker protesting that that bag of Cheezydoodles had just fallen right open in front of him.

“He’s lying,” Fraser and Ray told each other the instant they stepped out of the office.

Yes, thought Fraser. But how did they prove it?

——

 _Ah, yes, spring in Chicago_ , Ray thought. Rain trickled down his back, dripped off the end of his nose. He puffed out a breath and watched the cloud drift up, past the light in the alley. Surely, with no moon to shine on him, this guy would lay low.

But his cop’s mind told him different. This guy wouldn’t lay low; this guy had too much of a jones for starting these fires. Or earning money—the evidence pointed in both directions. Evidence. Nothing on prints on the business card yet: ninhydrin took twenty-four hours to develop prints; they’d know what they had tomorrow. He looked at his watch. Today. They’d know what they had today. Ah, jeez, why couldn’t arsonists keep decent hours?

Exhaustion had become part of his cell structure: just when was the last time he’d gotten a full night’s sleep? He added it up. Not _this_ week.

Ray sauntered down the alley, eyes alert for movement in the shadows. Two untorched addresses on the business card, both very definitely owned by John Taylor. The factory at 519 Main had been abandoned years ago; Nevitte and Sager had it covered. That 116 Nassau was now an all-night soup kitchen for down-and-outers probably wouldn’t stop Taylor from having it torched; the site was, like most of the others burned by their perp, prime real estate just waiting to be rebuilt on.

Gee, Nevitte and Southworth had looked happy, taking a break from stomping that poor computer into submission: they’d come up with a half-dozen owners of the assorted properties in question, but they were convinced that at least some of these names were dummy corporations. Even now, Southworth was back at the station, glaring at the computer screen while her fingers flickered over the keyboard. What did Benny think he had to be jealous about?

The crackle of the radio at his side. Ray reached for it. “Yeah?”

“It is now 41 degrees out there,” Huey’s rich bass said cheerfully. “I just thought you’d like to know.”

“Thank you, Huey.” Yes, thank you, Mr. Weatherman, sitting in your nice, warm, dry car, probably drinking hot coffee.

Ray found an alcove, stepped into it, hoping for shelter, stepped right back out when a leaky gutter poured water down the side of his leg. The radio crackled again. “Yeah?” If it was another weather report, he was going to drop a certain detective into the Chicago River, which was probably above 41 degrees, but which would feel far colder.

Benny, inside. “Ray, Diefenbaker’s coming out to—to—to—”

“Roger that. I’ll keep an eye out for him.” Ray grinned. Mounties. Fraser could sniff dog piddle; he could taste dog piddle; but he couldn’t seem to bring himself to actually _say_ “dog piddle.” He grinned again, listening to Huey crack up over the radio. Ah, Benny, Benny, Benny. Hey, good—rain was letting up.

Light-colored wolf in a dark alley—easy to spot, even on a night like this. “Hey, Dief,” Ray said as the wolf trotted past him.

Ray strolled to the corner of the building, peering around it to the back exit. Sheesh, this place felt as vulnerable as a nun in a gang fight. Nuns. He wished they’d been able to get them to close up for the night, but Sister Mary Agnes had given them that nun look that told them she had no intention of closing her soup kitchen on a night like this; they’d just better get their act together and keep it from burning down. She also apprised her workers of the situation; they were on the alert for anything suspicious.

Rain definitely stopped. Maybe the weather would give them a brea—

When the fire alarm went off, Ray literally jumped. He ran for the closest door, radio to his lips. “Benny! Benny! Talk to me! What’s going on?”

What was going on was that people were pouring out of every exit faster than he could keep track of them. Most were patrons of the soup kitchen, loping off into the darkness in all directions. If their man was among them, he was as good as gone.

He pushed through the crowd, clutching the radio, heart suddenly down in his shoes. Why wasn’t Benny answering? “Benny! Benny! Talk to me!”

He was at the bottom of a stair well. Sister Mary Agnes and two small nuns were hustling along a huge woman who apparently had gone over the edge; eyes closed, she was wailing in tandem with the fire alarm.

Ray pocketed the radio—too much noise to hear anything. He dashed up the stairs and into the dining area, where some patrons were shuffling from table to table, filling their pockets with abandoned food. “Hey, get outta here! There’s a fire here! Get out!” Jeez—these people had _no_ sense of self- preservation.

Front entrance, where Huey looked disgusted as he shooed out terrified people with a toothless old man clinging to his arm.

Basement. Benny’d gone to the basement. Oh, god, Ray had seen stairs _up_ , but where were the stairs _down?_

Smoke flavored the air now. Ray could see it seeping in under the kitchen doors. The kitchen was on fire. He took a deep breath and dropped to the floor, preparing himself for the plunge in. Don’t panic, Vecchio. You can’t help him if you panic. Oh, god, please don’t let Benny be in there.

The door opened before he reached it, and a wall of smoke poured out. Convulsed with coughing, Ray almost missed seeing the figure crawling out.

Benny. The smoke pouring from the kitchen seemed limitless. Ray reached out blindly, grabbing clothing. He hauled. Sheez, Benny was heavy. He hauled again.

And realized that he was hauling on not only Benny, but the guy Benny was trying to drag out. The Mountie was helpless with coughing, but he still had hold of his man.

Ray bent to his work, straining to see through the smoke. Appalling how quickly smoke could build up; appalling how quickly it could overcome a person. He seemed to be coughing more than he was crawling.

And then there was movement next to him, and Huey was there, handkerchief over his nose and mouth, gripping Benny with one hand and the other guy with the other, and dragging them into the capable hands of the fire fighters making for the kitchen.

Ray climbed to his feet, grateful for the steadying hand of a fire fighter. Out. Out where Benny was. He just wanted out where Benny was.

“Candle,” Fraser was gasping to Huey when Ray stumbled outside. Oh, god, he was alive; thank god, he was alive. Ray fiddled with the strap on the mask from which Benny was gulping oxygen—something to do with his hands, which wanted to push the hair back from Benny’s eyes, to caress Benny’s face, to hold Benny safe. Don’t lose it, Vecchio. Not in front of everybody.

Fraser had glanced at him, had turned back to Huey. “And rags soaked in cooking oil. Apparently he placed the rags earlier at the bottom of an old laundry chute. Then he simply dropped the lighted candle down the chute at the appropriate moment.”

Damn. The perp had been right there on the scene, and they’d been guarding him like he was the crown jewels. And the fire started anyway. And, double damn, there was Sister Mary Agnes charging over like a ballistic missile going for its target.

“Where’s Diefenbaker?” Benny asked.

Aw, nuts; aw, no. But suddenly there was a white streak of wolf, and Dief was snuffling at Fraser. The wolf yipped at him.

“You did?” said Fraser. “Are you sure?”

Another yip. Ray looked at Huey, who rolled his eyes. Huey didn’t know about the Mountie Zone.

“Diefenbaker identified the perpetrator—probably the scent of candle wax on his hands gave him away. He can track him.”

“Well, let’s get on it!”

Ray determinedly turned his back on the approaching Sister Mary Agnes and hesitated. Under the layer of soot, Fraser was pale. But when he removed the oxygen mask and stood, his face showed the usual determination.

“You okay?” Ray asked.

Fraser cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. He cleared his throat again. Oh, yeah— _he_ was okay. “Diefenbaker! Track!”

And the wolf was off, and they were following. “Slow down!” Ray called to Dief, who looked back and did just that, for a change. Still, the pace was a bit of a stretch for someone who’d inhaled all that smoke. But Fraser was keeping up, and Ray kept an eye on him.

And, once they were out of sight of the fire, Ray kept a hand on him. Benny shouldn’t be doing this. Should be resting some place safe, not chasing some bastard arsonist. When Ray caught up with that damned criminal— He strangled the thought.

The wolf trotted ahead of Fraser and Ray, never faltering. Down rain-wet streets where light shimmered on the shining pavement. Past doorways where an occasional figure slumped. Past junkers and burned-out cars; past a group of young men trading laughter and lies around a drum of burning crate slats; past a party that had spilled out into the street. Dampness put a halo around the streetlights and turned Fraser’s coughs into clouds of smoke.

Ray was glad when Dief stopped near a clunker of a van and looked back. Fraser stopped and bent, hands on his knees, breath wheezing in and out of his lungs.

“You okay?” Ray asked.

The Mountie nodded rapidly, determinedly. Oh, yeah— _he_ was okay. Just as soon as Ray got him to a hospital. Ray touched Fraser’s face and was jolted by the tender look he got in return. Aw, jeez, Vecchio. He glanced at the van. Go get ‘em, Vecchio. Haul him back to lay at the Mountie’s feet.

The van was idling at a stop light. Was the perp in there? Dief had turned back and was looking at them. Ray took a deep breath. Only one way to find out.

Ray checked his gun, reholstered it, pulled out his badge. “I’ll take care of this,” he said to Fraser.

The Mountie nodded rapidly, still wheezing. “Diefenbaker will help you.”

Ray looked sharply at him, looked at Dief. Oh, yeah—the wolf will help. In Ray’s next life, the wolf will help. “Sure,” he said.

The walk to the van seemed the longest of Ray’s life. All his senses were trained on the van, watching for movement. He flicked a glance at the traffic light, willing it to stay red. Get a move on, Vecchio. Even in Chicago traffic lights don’t stay red forever.

Ray strode up to the cab of the van, hand on his gun, badge in the other hand. He took a deep breath as he came up to the driver’s window.

“Police, sir,” he said to the figure. “Would you please turn off the vehicle?” Oh, doitdoitdoitdoit; don’t make this hard.

The face that turned to him was startlingly pale, startingly blank. But the man obeyed.

“Would you please step out of the vehicle, sir?” Ray’s heart was in his throat.

Hesitation; and obedience. Ray felt limp.

“Sir, I have reason to believe you may have been involved in the commission of a crime. I am taking you down to the station now for questioning.”

“The heavens shall pass away with a great noise,” the man said conversationally, to Ray and to Fraser, who had just come up, “and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up.”

“Ah,” said Fraser. There didn’t seem to be much more to say.

Now—do this right: since he would be arrested after questioning, tell him his noncustodial rights. As Ray fumbled for the card to make sure he got the warning right, he saw the worn Bible lying in the van’s passenger’s seat, and a little bubble of happiness floated up inside him.

 _Got_ ya!

——

Or, perhaps not. As Fraser listened to States Attorney Louise St. Laurent, lead seemed to settle in his stomach and his spirits. Bit by logical bit, she carefully dismantled their case: circumstantial evidence, she kept emphasizing; arresting Mr. Zenk would be a waste of time because the entire case against Mr. Zenk was built with circumstantial evidence.

Yes, a _wolf_ had taken them to Mr. Zenk’s vehicle, but what proof did they have of a connection with the fire at 116 Nassau? Well, Detective Vecchio, a man who lived in his van could be considered homeless; and since 116 Nassau was a soup kitchen for the homeless, was it stretching things _too_ far to believe that a homeless man might go there for a meal? Detective Vecchio, what Mr. Zenk was _doing_ there at the time the fire started was having a hot supper on a cold night—just like the twenty-odd other people there at that hour. Did he and—well, why _exactly_ had Constable Fraser been at the scene? It was unfortunate that his home had been the site of a fire, but that didn’t make him a member of the Chicago Police Department. In any event, did Detective Vecchio and Constable Fraser follow any others that night? She didn’t think so.

And had they determined a _motive?_ Mr. Zenk had no priors for arson. Well, Detective Vecchio, what evidence did they _have_ that Mr. Zenk was a “religious nut”? What graffiti? Yes, and how had they proved that Mr. Zenk had left that graffiti? Since they had no probable cause to actually _arrest_ Mr. Zenk, there would be no search of the van; besides, spray paint was too generic to be matched. No, Detective Vecchio, she was _not_ taking pleasure in poking holes in their case. There shouldn’t have _been_ any holes in their case—at least not this many.

Let’s see—motive. She understood that several of the burned buildings hadn’t been insured, which was unusual in an arson-for-hire case. Why, Detective Southworth, it _was_ nice that the owners of so many of those sites were planning to build profitable establishments on the sites. Did she mean to imply a connection between these businessmen and the fires? How was she prepared to prove such a connection? Well, dummy corporations weren’t actually illegal, were they? And they still didn’t prove a connection. In fact, the detectives might wish to refrain from implying any connection, as the city of Chicago wouldn’t enjoy defending a slander suit.

Yes, that was a nice set of prints at the fire scene on East Cross. How exactly did they prove that those prints had been left by the arsonist? Well? Okay, Detective Vecchio, how exactly did they prove that the prints had been left at the time of the fire? Well?

What evidence did they have that that business card actually had come from the fire scene? Yes, well, Detective Vecchio, the only witness to that was a homeless woman who thought they were—was it _angels_ , Detective Vecchio?

Yes, ninhydrin had indeed revealed the presence of Mr. Zenk’s fingerprints on the business card, but since the card couldn’t be linked to the arson itself, this was academic. Well, Detective Vecchio, a list of addresses did not consitute real evidence, even if they were addresses of arson sites. It consituted circumstantial evidence. And, Detective Vecchio, she wasn’t eager to participate in the field day a defense attorney would have with such circumstantial evidence.

And circumstantial evidence appeared to be all they had, since Mr. Zenk wasn’t being very forthcoming, was he?

 _No, he wasn’t_ , Fraser thought, studying his boots. Mr. Zenk was, in fact, proving remarkably _un_ forthcoming. Silent after Ray had told him of his right to remain silent, of the fact that anything he said may be used against him, of his right to leave any time he desired; silent ever since. Seated in the interview room, Zenk had remained unresponsive to Ray’s amiability, to Detective Nevitte’s coddling, to Ray’s swallowed frustration, to Detective Southworth’s fuming, to Ray’s evident irritation, to Detective Huey’s geniality, to Ray’s hot fury.

Fraser had studied Zenk through the one-way glass, watching for one of the four signs that the man was faking his blankness, chilled that those signs weren’t evident. There was something— _eerie_ in the pale, empty face, in the pale blue eyes staring at the table, the wall, the parade of questioning detectives. Zenk seemed—

“Disconnected,” Fraser said to Ray after the detective’s fury had failed to get Zenk to communicate.

“ _I’ll_ disconnect him,” Ray muttered back.

“No, Ray, I think Mr. Zenk has simply—disconnected himself from the situation.”

“So he _is_ faking!”

“Well— Not as _such_. He simply—doesn’t care what’s going on around him. Either very clever or—” Fraser searched for the suitable term.

“—psycho,” Ray provided.

“Well, I’m not sure _psychotic_ exactly—”

“Psycho.”

“Well, Ray—”

“Psycho, Fraser. He’s psycho. Or maybe—maybe he’s really, really stupid.”

“Stupidity hadn’t actually occurred to me.” Intriguing, however. Perhaps someone had written on the subject.

“So stupid nothing registers.” Ray shook his head. “Nah—that doesn’t make sense. Somebody that stupid doesn’t come up with an arson pattern this complicated. Psycho. I’m going with psycho.”

“Either way, Ray, since Mr. Zenk has simply been brought in for questioning, all he has to do is leave.”

Which Mr. Zenk quietly did at 12:06 p.m., simply rising and walking out of the interview room.

“Must be lunchtime,” Leftenant Welsh commented. Fraser saw him go into his office and close the door, no doubt to indulge in cold cuts.

“Chocolate,” Detective Southworth said in a strangled voice as she went through the squad room.

“Junior Mints,” Detective Nevitte said between her teeth as she started for her office.

“Doughnuts,” said Detective Huey, putting on his coat. “Lots of ‘em.”

“Wall pounding,” Detective Vecchio did _not_ say, but should have: he thumped the wall outside the interview room, thwacked the wall on the stairway, pounded the wall outside of booking, and bruised the side of his fist against the side of the brick building itself. The roof of his Buick Riviera took some slams, as did the dashboard after Ray got behind the wheel.

“ _Had_ him!” Ray said, punctuating his words with his fist. “We _had_ him, _had_ him, _had_ him!”

Fraser took a deep breath, then another. And another. He understood the lure of sugar and cocoa, the temptation of starch and fat, the exhiliration of pounding things. He took another deep breath, looking over at Ray, admiring the way anger flushed his cheeks and brightened his eyes. Fraser would handle stress his way. He watched the beautiful lips work in fury. Deep breath.

“I wish you’d quit wheezing,” Ray said in a distracted voice.

“I’m _not_ wheezing.” Then, at a look from Ray, “Well, I’m not.”

It wasn’t _wheezing_ ; it was just—just deep breathing, deep, cleansing breaths, meant to relax him and to clear out as much soot as practicable in this polluted atmosphere. Fraser had a sudden flash of yearning for Tuktoyaktuk, for Reindeer Station, even for Moosejaw—for some place where people didn’t burn other people’s homes for prophecy or for profit. Some place where two men could find privacy. A cabin. A snowed-in cabin where fires crackled cheerily in a big fireplace, where they belonged. He took another cleansing breath.

“Aw, damn.” Ray’s voice was strangled.

Fraser looked at him, took the piece of paper he was holding out. It was a printout Elaine had warily handed the detective on his way out of the squad room. Identification of the young woman who had been burned.

Fraser felt shock drain the blood from his face as he stared at the printout, trying to correlate the wasted figure he’d seen in the hospital bed with the young prostitute whom the Chicago police had arrested two years before: Ophallia Angille; age 22. In the United States on a student visa—long expired.

From Inuvik, the Northwest Territories. From home.

Deported once, she had come back over the border, back to the city which already had begun to eat at her soul.

“Hospital first?” Ray asked. “Or consulate?”

What? Fraser looked at him for a minute. “Consulate. Thank you, Ray.”

He settled back. His hand found Ray’s thigh, an anchor. Once the car was in motion, Ray’s hand took his; automatically, he laced his fingers through Ray’s. Solace.

He looked out the window, felt his heart settle into a steady beat. Consulate first, where he would do what he could for her: start the process whereby Canada would claim her lost child.

——

Ray winced as he looked at the figure in the bed, swathed in bandages of every possible description and connected to machines he didn’t even want to know what they were used for. Young. Damn—she looked so _young_. The smell of burned skin came to him under the smell of medicine and antiseptic, and he swallowed hard. Burning. Aw, damn, that could have been Benny. He shuddered.

“The consulate is making contact with her family,” Fraser was saying to the doctor.

“It’s nice to have a name for her,” the doctor murmured back. “She seems to have had a tough time of it. Walking pharmaceutical experiment; you name it, she had it in her. Third degree burns on her arms and legs and the left side of her face. Not fatal. But this young lady is gonna have a very bad time when she comes out.”

“She’s been unconscious the whole time?” Ray asked.

“Off and on. We’ve—been encouraging her to stay unconscious.” She didn’t say more, but Ray could fill in the rest.

“Does she speak?” asked Fraser.

“She says ‘flower,’ ” answered a nurse. “And ‘tree.’ ‘Flower’ and ‘tree’—and ‘hurt.’ That’s all she says.”

Ray felt his throat constrict. Jeez, what a universe where you get ID’d because you’d broken the law. What a universe where you crawl inside some drug so far it takes a fire to drag you back out and get you a second chance. What a universe.

“Sometimes I hate this job,” he said to Fraser as they got into the Riv.

“You do your best, Ray.”

“Sometimes my best just ain’t good enough.”

“And oftentimes it is, Ray.”

Well— “We shoulda had a doctor listen to that wheezing of yours.”

“It’s not wheezing, Ray. It’s just deep breathing. And a little cough.”

Easier to twit the Mountie about his wheezing—easier than thinking about that silent figure in the hospital bed, about a soot-covered Fraser gasping into an oxygen mask, about those pale, blank eyes in that bastard Zenk’s face.

Easier to take Fraser back to West Racine, where he’d gotten permission to stay while things were fixed and the electricity was reconnected. Easier to comb the place with Fraser, make sure nobody was there, that he’d be safe.

“Are you sure about this?” Ray asked.

“Yes, Ray. Your uncle is expecting you. I’ll be perfectly fine here.”

Ray looked around the apartment, then at Fraser, sitting on the bed six inches away from him. “I can duck out early, come back.”

“Ray, it’s his seventieth birthday. Besides—” Fraser leaned over and kissed him. “—you look exhausted.” Another kiss. “I happen to know you haven’t slept a full night in—” Another kiss. “—oh, four or five nights.”

Kiss. “And I _won’t_ get a full night’s sleep here?”

Kiss. “Oh, no.”

Ray grinned at him. Fraser looked pretty wiped, himself. Oh, it felt good to finally run his fingers through Fraser’s hair, to touch him the way Ray had wanted to touch him all too often recently. Cradle his cheek. Kiss.

Ray looked at his watch, looked at the bed, looked at the Mountie. “I got ten whole minutes I don’t have to be anywhere,” he said. “Want to fool around?”

Under the exhaustion, Fraser’s eyes glowed. “I’ll get the timer.”

——

The smell of burning came to him even in his sleep, drifting up from the basement of the apartment building. Fraser sat up and listened for movement. Nothing. He lay back down.

It was a relief to be home, even if he’d gotten permission by promising to guard the empty building. Replacing boarded-up doors and windows would take a few days; replacing burned-out wiring in the basement would take a few days; guarding the building for his neighbors in the meantime was the least he could do. At least there was running water.

Moonlight stole through the window, onto Diefenbaker, asleep on the floor between the window and the bed, blending his pale fur into the pale light, like some ghost from the Ice Age. Must be well after midnight.

Fraser turned over. He had gone to bed in shirt and jeans, in case of alarm. Perhaps he should have sat up all night. At the very thought, exhaustion flooded through him; there had been too many short nights lately. At least Ray was safe, safe with his family, safe in his home. Safe.

He closed his eyes and slept.

——

Safe. Ray blinked at the moonlight puddled on the floor, the moonlight that woke him. Was Fraser safe? He should have gone back, after Uncle Vincenzo’s birthday party, especially after the heat of that afternoon’s mouth massage, but Fraser’d been up too many nights lately. Ray could have just held him, made sure he was okay, but he knew deep in his heart that it wouldn’t end there.

He turned onto his back, smiling. It never ended there. And, oh, jeez, he didn’t want it to. Why it had started, he still wasn’t sure. Maybe it started because of that Mountie integrity, that drew Ray like a flame drew a moth. Maybe it started because the guy was a natural babe-magnet—and seemed amusingly unaware. Maybe it started because of that Canadian coolness, so much fun to crack.

He sighed. Maybe it was that loneliness that seemed to surround Benny like a chilly cloud, one that Ray felt compelled to dispel. That odd, hidden humor, that Ray felt obliged to tap. That mind so crammed with weird facts, that made conversation so fun, since Ray never knew what was going to come out next. Maybe it was that politeness, that could make Ray feel like the center of the Mountie universe. Maybe it was the way they worked together so well, the sense that they just—meshed somehow, completed each other in some weird way.

Aw, gee. Maybe it was all of the above. All of the above; and some really great sex. Sex that he didn’t really want to end. His body—his body had fallen in love with Fraser: his mouth in love with Fraser’s mouth; his cock in love with Fraser’s ass; his skin in love with Fraser’s touch; his ass in love with the hot, sweet bulk of Fraser’s cock. His body completely in love with Fraser.

Dreamy with the memory of that afternoon’s necking, Ray felt himself sliding back into sleep.

His body—it _was_ only his body in love with Fraser, wasn’t it?

Sleep took him before he had an answer.

——

Suffocating; he was suffocating. He struggled for air.

Weight on his chest; Fraser opened his eyes into the blank face of the moon. Dizzy—what was that smell—it—dizzy—

The moon had a face with pale blue eyes—crafty eyes that crinkled with smiles. Fraser struggled to rise, struggled to speak. Zenk! Lemuel Zenk!

But Fraser’s lips refused to open—tape across his mouth. And Fraser’s arms refused to cooperate—wrists bound by handcuffs. And—dizzy— He looked over to Diefenbaker, sprawled in the moonlight, tongue lolling from his mouth. Drugged.

Fraser glared at Zenk and tried to kick away, but Zenk had him pinned.

He cried out against the tape at the unexpected flash of pain from his arm; Zenk showed him the straight razor now gleaming with Fraser’s blood. Fraser’s own razor. Zenk was smiling.

“Sorry,” he said. “But I want you both.”

 _No! Not Ray—_

Zenk’s strong fingers grabbed Fraser’s jaw and slammed his head against the wall once, twice.

Then, darkness.

——

“Well, sir, Pekingese generally do not act as conduits for the Antichrist,” Ray said evenly into the phone. Today. He had to pick today to come to work, to answer the phone every time it rang. Why the hell hadn’t he just called in sick?

“Yes, I understand that the millennium is near, and that the final battle between the forces of heaven and hell is about to begin. It’s just that a Pekingese is a surprising choice as avatar for the Prince of Darkness.” If Huey didn’t stop laughing over there, Ray was going to throw something heavy at him.

“Of course I understand how upsetting this must be. Have you had the dog checked out? Well, a good veterinarian could tell you a lot. Of course, sir. Any time, sir. Happy to be of assistance. Yes—happy apocalypse to you, too, sir. Good-bye.”

Ignore Huey, now limp with laughter in his chair. Pull open the desk drawer, where the faded rose still scented everything.

Oh, yeah, Vecchio; it’s just sex. That’s why your heart fell when Fraser didn’t answer his door this morning, why your heart flopped when you saw that red uniform as you passed the Canadian consulate, even though it wasn’t Fraser. Just sex made you feel betrayed when there was no red rose this morning, like Fraser had forgotten you, like he didn’t care enough any more to sneak roses for you.

It’s all just sex. Just your body in love with Fraser, with the pleasure Fraser could give it. Ray sighed. Oh, yeah, Vecchio, it’s just your body in love with Fraser, not your—

Phone rang. It just better not be another nutcase reporting some apocalyptic dragon—

“Why, hel _lo_ , Inspector Thatcher! No, I _haven’t_ seen Constable Fraser today—” Ray’s heart stopped. The Mountie was _never_ late to work. “I’ll swing by his apartment. Perhaps he was hung up in traffic. Well, those sidewalks can get pretty congested this time of day— _Good_ -bye,” he said as she slammed the phone down in his ear. No sense of humor.

Not safe. Fraser hadn’t been safe at all.

On with the jacket; try not to kill too many civilians on the way to Racine. Ray unholstered his gun as he entered the building, passing the glass installers breakfasting in the lobby.

He was going to feel like a prize idiot if Benny had just overslept his alarm. A relieved idiot, but an idiot.

Third floor, and silence. Good construction—couldn’t even hear the workmen.

Gun in hand, Ray paused outside 3J, listening at the door. Nothing. Well, make your move, Vecchio.

He opened the door and crouched in one movement, letting the door swing back, studying the room along the barrel of his gun. Nobody. Nobody in the dining area; nobody in the closet; nobody in the—

He froze. Diefenbaker was sprawled on the floor beside Benny’s bed, tongue lolled out of his mouth. He reached down and put a hand on the wolf’s ribs. Good breathing—he supposed. Good heartbeat—he surmised. Drugged, probably.

And on the bed— His brain seemed to have shut down. On the bed— His body was working on automatic. On the rumpled bed was a straight razor glistening with blood. Fresh blood. Fraser’s blood.

And on the bed was a note, words neatly printed: “Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven.” Oh my _god_ , did Zenk know? Had he _seen_ them?

And, at the bottom of the note, “COME FIND US.”

——

 _Ray_.

 _Warn Ray_.

But arms refused to move—handcuffs. Hands behind him—handcuffs. On his knees with hands cuffed behind him to something solid. Lips sealed by tape. Head throbbing.

And he was— He fought the rising panic. Blind he was blind again he was— Fraser took a deep breath. The touch of fabric on his face told him that something had been pulled over his head, blindfolding him. Just a blindfold. Relax. No use to Ray if you do not relax.

Knees pressed to cold concrete; something small scuttling nearby; sense of being enclosed. Building—abandoned building? Strong smell of alcohol. There was an abandoned factory listed on the card he and Ray had received from the homeless woman—a factory that had not been torched that last night—

Fraser felt fear run through him, tried to let it ease out through his fingers and his toes. No use to panic. Ray would find him. It seemed his lot in life, Fraser thought with rueful amusement, to be kidnapped by arsonists; and Ray’s lot to find him. Ray would find him.

Something scraped nearby. Something splashed onto the floor. Fraser choked at the fresh stench of kerosene.

“Almost ready,” a light voice mocked. Lemuel Zenk.

Fraser pulled, but the handcuffs held fast. He tried to relax. Don’t struggle so hard that you make a spark: the kerosene would go up like— He swallowed hard. Just don’t struggle too hard.

Ray would find him in time.

He would. Fraser was counting on him. He could count on Ray.

——

Fraser was counting on him. Oh, jeez, this was a big building; how would Ray find the Mountie in time?

“Nothing yet,” he said into the radio.

Uniforms had rousted a couple winos just inside and done a quick sweep of the first floor, but Welsh had pulled everybody out to watch the perimeter: no sense in having too many bodies in danger if the place went up. Ray smiled grimly. This way, he’d have only one person to rescue from a fiery death; and with Fraser he’d had practice. And his heart would most certainly be in this rescue.

“I’m going to the basement,” he told Welsh over the radio. That was where Zenk’s fires always started; that’s where he’d stash Benny.

“Understood,” said Welsh. Ray smiled as he put away the radio. Benny seemed to be rubbing off on people.

The basement was dim and filled with trash, with piles of old crates. Ray smelled mold and dirt, but mostly he smelled alcohol and kerosene. He reholstered his gun; a spark in the wrong place, and this building might go up like a fireworks stand.

He eased through the labyrinth of crates, alert for sounds beyond the scuttling of rats, beyond the thumping of his own heart. Sidestep puddles; try not to think about the state of the floor. These shoes were going to be a total loss. Kerosene smell was stronger here: he could see a double track shimmering into darkness at the other end of the basement. A double trail of kerosene leading at this end to—

—to Fraser. Kneeling, hands behind him, some sort of bag over his head. Fraser, fastened to a pipe like a goat tied to a stake. Blood caked on his arm. And above him— Ray swallowed hard. Above him, in the struts, a tilting barrel probably full of something flammable. A rope kept it up there; if the rope let go—

“Fraser,” he hissed. Oh, god, he was so still. If Benny was dead, so was Zenk; Ray would rip his heart out with his bare fingers, glorying in the heat of Zenk’s blood.

Fraser lifted his head, and Ray’s heart began to beat again. Oh, thank God. He fumbled for the radio. “Got him!” he said triumphantly into it as he started over to Fraser. “Basement; northwest corner. Get somebody down here; we got a lot of kerosene all over—”

Movement at the other end of the basement stopped him. A flicker of light; he squinted. A flame no bigger than a star, illuminating a pale face: Zenk.

“And there went out fire from the Lord, and devoured them, and they died before the Lord,” he called out pleasantly, and then, “Sorry, Detective Vecchio. You and Constable Fraser played my game very well. And, it’s heartening to find a man who will enter the mouth of Hell for the one he loves.” And he tossed down the flame.

Time seemed to halt as Ray watched the twin trails of fire speed toward him between heartbeats. Two walls of fire, and Fraser and he were in their path. He reached behind him for Fraser, to touch him one more time.

Then the two trails curved apart and flashed around him and Fraser, joining behind them in a wide circle of flame. Flame that roared when it hit a crate that must have been soaked in kerosene. A column of fire now licked at the rope holding the barrel above them.

Ray gaped at it, horror-stricken, for a moment. “Get us outta here _now-w-w-w!_ ” he shrieked into the radio.

Then he dropped to help Fraser, now yanking at the handcuffs as if trying to wrench the pipe out of the floor. Off with the bag, and for the first time since they met Ray saw terror in the Mountie’s eyes. Off with the tape.

“You _do_ have a key for these,” Fraser said.

The handcuffs were standard issue. Key. Key. Ray fumbled in his pants pockets. Don’t look at the fire licking at the rope. Just find the stupid key. Key key key key key. Where’d he keep that damn key?

Fraser wrenched against the cuffs. “Ray, if—if you don’t find the key quickly, I want you to get out of here without me!” he shouted.

“No way, Benny!” Key. He started on the pockets in his jacket. Don’t look at the barrel up there; don’t think about that stuff ready to cascade down and turn you and Benny into toast; just find the key key key. Where the hell was the stupid _key?_

“I mean it! Save yourself—”

“Shut _up_ , Fraser!”

Smoke colored the air. He coughed. Don’t look at the burning rope.

“I _mean_ it, Ray! If you don’t find it quickly—”

Ray silenced him with a kiss. “Shut. _Up_ ,” he said, shaking Fraser with each word. Good god, the man was infuriating.

“But, Ray—”

Keykeykeykey— _key!_ Grinning, Ray pulled his spare key from his inside jacket pocket and slid it into the lock. Twist, unlock. Fraser rubbed his wrists.

“We gotta get outta here!” Ray shouted, pointing up.

The flames near them had died down enough that Ray’s jacket smothered them; he pushed Fraser ahead of him as they belly crawled away from the tilting barrel. Smoke thickened the air, though there was a lot more light than Ray had expected.

Fraser stopped, removed his shirt. A ripping sound, and he was handing Ray a section to tie around his nose and mouth. It cut the smoke some, but Ray still felt as if he were smothering. And, oh, god, he had to get Fraser out of here.

Stairs. Where the hell were the damn _stairs?_ He blinked through smoke, puzzled about the light ahead.

And then realized that he was seeing the crates he’d walked between earlier, burning like pillars of fire between him and Fraser and the safety of the stairs.

Aw, damn. Ray closed his eyes, feeling sweat soak the mask over his face. No! He and Fraser had probably two minutes before either the rope on the barrel burned through and let it dump its deadly load, or everything in the basement combusted. Either way, they were dead. And, if their clothes caught fire while they ran a gauntlet between the crates, they’d be lucky to get out of the building alive.

Fraser pulled on his arm. Ray looked at him. Fraser’s eyes glowing above the flannel mask. And in Fraser’s eyes was a gentler fire just for Ray, mixed with that Mountie look—the one that said everything was going to be fine if they just kept a stiff upper lip. And then Fraser pointed ahead, to the crates.

To the trickle of liquid steaming between them as it inched toward him and Fraser.

Water. Gushing down the stairs and trickling into the basement. Firefighters. Oh, thank you, God. If he and Fraser could get past the crates, water would put out their clothes.

Ray looked at the Mountie and ripped off his own loose shirt. He studied their path, and then he reached out and took Fraser’s hand, taking a firm hold. If something happened to Fraser, it happened to Ray.

Fraser held up a forefinger. One.

Fraser held up the next finger. Two.

Fraser held up the next finger. Three—

And they were scrambling between the crates, into the wall of heat, skirting flame. Fire on both sides, and Ray focused on the path ahead, on the way through the boxes to the stairs. Fraser’s hand was firmly in his.

It was easier than it should have been: adrenaline and fear for Benny speeded his legs, and the path was well lit; he followed the gleaming snail track of water that had made its way down the stairs.

Still, the run seemed to go on forever, forever.

Then he plunged into darkness and barked his shin on something hard. He pitched forward onto a set of damp concrete steps leading up.

Wheezing from behind him, and hands were brushing his shoulders, running all over him. He turned; Fraser was brushing something off his back. Ray knocked embers off Fraser’s shoulders, brushed glowing ash out of Fraser’s hair. He thought giddily that he’d never thought he’d be thankful his own hair was so thin—nothing much up there to catch fire. And no more marvelous way to knock off glowing embers than by caressing the dearest body in the world.

Then Fraser was tugging him up the stairs, on hands and knees; then they were being helped by people in helmets and suits.

“Alcohol!” Fraser shouted. “It’s going to go up!”

Wonderful, this decisiveness. No arguing; just a quick hustle out of the building, out to where the sun shone dim through a pall of smoke. It didn’t seem right that the sun was still up; Ray had been in that basement forever, and here it was still daylight.

A scramble of police and fire fighters to get away away from the building. Ray followed where he was led, gulping air. Even with the tang of smoke from Zenk’s fire, Chicago air was sweet.

He collapsed beside Fraser, wondering if he himself looked that sooty and scorched. Probably. Hands to yourself, though, Vecchio; keep your hands to yourself.

Then he looked down the street in time to see a flower bloom inside the factory, a flower of fire that pushed through windows, shattering what was left of the glass. Aw, jeez—that would’ve been him and Benny. Aw, jeez—that _was_ his best jacket and his brand-new shirt.

The flower pushed through the roof; Ray watched in astonishment as a section of the roof blew skyward, then began a leisurely fall toward the street, trailing fire and smoke.

Oh, no—not the Riv. Not the Riv. Don’t go for the Riv! Hadn’t he parked far enough down the block that this shouldn’t happen?

The roof fell instead on the van parked in the alley—Zenk’s van, which they’d staked out before Ray had entered the building. Ray laughed joyously: what a universe! The van crumpled under the burning section of roof, which settled gently around it.

A heartbeat, two.

“Not good,” one of the fire fighters said behind Ray. “This is not good.”

But it was beautiful when the gas tank exploded, beautiful when the ball of fire surrounded what was left of the van, beautiful when a howl of protest went up from somewhere in the crowd, beautiful when debris flung into the air began to float down around them: bills bearing Benjamin Franklin’s smiling face, haloed in flame. Beautiful.

“Hundred-dollar bills,” Ray heard Lieutenant Welsh say. “Well, it would seem that our Mr. Zenk here serves both God and mammon with great eagerness.”

Zenk. They had him. Ray grinned at Benny and lay back on the cool sidewalk as the firefighters surged ahead to do their work, listening to indistinct sounds of anguish that could only be coming from the arsonist. Don’t reach for the Mountie’s hand, right here in front of everybody; don’t let your eyes betray you. Just close your eyes and keep your love life private. And be happy.

They finally had him.

——

They had her. Fraser stood in the hall outside Ophallia’s room, watching the Angille family through the door. Mrs. Angille smoothed Ophallia’s hair back from her forehead, over and over, as the doctor spoke; Mr. Angille had hold of his daughter’s hand as if never to let go. It was a comforting picture. He had a sudden image of his own parents, bathed in the warm light of the kerosene lamp, and suppressed a surge of envy.

Warmth beside him, and smooth fingers briefly touching his own; and suddenly Fraser was enclosed in his own safe circle, which had Ray Vecchio at its center.

“Nice picture,” Ray said. “Hope this time she can keep it together.”

“Perhaps this time she will. At least she’s getting another chance.”

They turned to walk down the hall together.

“You sure you’re okay?” Ray murmured.

“Of course. The doctors said I’m just fine.”

“ _I’ll_ be the judge of that.”

Fraser could not stop smiling at him. “Of course, Ray.”

“Damn!” Ray said. “Lucky us, we get to go home. Huey and the twins are gonna be busy tonight following up on Zenk’s confession—nailing the case up tight.”

For, apparently undone by the sight of everything he owned destroyed by his own fire, Lemuel Zenk was being extremely forthcoming. In fact, as Detective Nevitte merrily put it, they could not shut him up. Alternating between apocalyptic harangues and detailed lists of those who had hired him to torch their property, Zenk had out-talked his attorney, who, the last time Fraser had been near the interrogation room, appeared to be sulking in a corner.

“Jeez, I love it when everything comes together at the end of a case.” Ray’s voice lowered. “Get you home; get you in a shower— I called Ma; she doesn’t expect me home tonight.”

Suddenly Fraser could not catch his breath. Ray, all to himself, all night. All night in Fraser’s apartment, in Fraser’s bed—

“You know,” said Ray, “I’ve been thinking of going up north for a while, up there to Runamukluk, for a couple years.”

“It’s Tuktoyaktuk, Ray. Runamukluk is farther west.”

“ _What?_ ”

Gee, it was fun to tease Ray.

“Oh, very funny, Benny.”

Yes, lots of fun to tease him. “Why there, exactly?”

“Well, the turn of the century is coming up, and I just got this feeling that we should get as far from Chicago as we can—you know, hide out ’till all the nutcases calm down.”

“Well, Tuktoyaktuk is as far north as we can get and stay in this hemisphere. But, Ray, if the world _does_ come to an end on January 1, 2001, as many seem to be predicting, hiding out in Canada won’t do us any good.”

“Yeah, but, at least I won’t have to listen to all those people going, ‘I told you so.’ ”

“Ah. Well, then, that would be the place to go.” He smiled to himself. “Or perhaps we could go to Seal Maw; I understand it’s quite lovely during its two weeks of summer … ”

——

Seal Maw. Very funny. Ray had smiled to himself over Fraser’s joke while they drove to West Racine, smiled over it while they secured the building; he smiled over it now while he leaned against the wall of the bathroom Fraser shared with the other tenants, waiting for Fraser to finish his shower. Seal Maw. Mountie humor; Seal Maw.

The shower was new: the residents had installed it and an oblong shower rod over the old-fashioned bathtub when they were on their renovation kick after Taylor had bought the building. More practical, really, for a communal bathroom.

He thought about Fraser naked in the shower, washing away the stresses of the day; part of him wanted to be in there, too, but let Fraser have his privacy.

Fraser’s hand appeared above the curtain, grabbed the shower rod. Bruises dark on his wrist. Ray watched the fingers tighten, tighten—

His clothes were off, and he was in the shower before his brain kicked in.

Fraser turned, face twisted in anguish, and then Ray’s arms were around him, pulling him close, holding him tight. Just holding him under the cool, steady rain of the shower. Just holding him, feeling his body shudder. Just holding him. Holding him.

He felt Fraser gradually stop shuddering; felt him relax against him, safe in Ray’s arms.

The Mountie drew a deep breath. “I was so— _afraid_ ,” he said. “Not just for myself, but for you. I was so afraid for you. I almost didn’t want you to come for me, because I knew you’d put yourself into danger, and—”

Just hold him. Rest his cheek against yours and hold him. Let the water patter over you both and wash away the stench of Zenk.

“Fraser,” Ray said at last, shivering, “why didn’t you take a _hot_ shower?”

“Well, Ray, there isn’t much hot water.” A little laugh that caught halfway in his throat. “And, besides, Ray—for me this _is_ a hot shower.”

Aw, gee, Benny, Benny, Benny. Just like Benny. His Benny. His.

Ray tightened his arms around Benny’s slippery body, ran his mouth over Benny’s water-slick cheek. Benny. His Benny.

His heart thumped happily in his chest. Just a body in love with Fraser’s body—oh, _right_ , Vecchio. Oh, Vecchio, this is something more than just sex, more than just kind-of love. This is something more like—more like—

“ _Ray!_ ”

The world spun. Fraser’s hands reached for him, but didn’t manage to catch him until he had almost fallen, grabbing the shower curtain, pulling it with him on his way down, dragging it down and exposing them both to—

——

Ray’s father stood right there, staring at him with the cold eyes he’d had living—and still had, dead.

Fraser automatically reached out to turn off the water; then he froze in the act of reaching to help Ray to his feet. His dead father stood before him, puzzlement on his face. Oh, why had he chosen to appear in full dress uniform? Wasn’t this scene embarrassing enough as it was?

Ray was dimly aware that Benny had turned the water off, was now standing almost at attention, trying to hide behind the washcloth. What the hell—

“My god,” Ray’s father said in disgust.

“Get away from me!” Ray snarled at the ghost of his father. Then, “No, not you!” at the hurt on Fraser’s face.

“Then, _who_ , Ray—” Fraser looked at the ghost of his father, who was radiating embarrassment.

“Son, I’m very—disappointed.” Oh, the uniform just added emphasis to that disapproving look.

“My god.” Ray’s father’s face was a mask of disgust. “You’re a faggot. Jeez—I shoulda known. My god.”

“Oh, who asked you?” Ray snarled back.

“Ray, is there—” _What_ had Fraser’s father just said? _Disappointed?_ “Well, I’m sorry, Dad; I know you may not approve of this, but—you know, it really is my life.”

Ray frowned. “Fraser, are you—”

“Raymond, I told you this guy was bad news. You always were a wuss. But now he’s got you—aw, jeez, I’m sick.”

“You’re dead!” Ray informed his father. “You’re dead, and I don’t miss you. Why don’t you go to hell, where you belong? Not you!” he said to Benny’s hurt face.

“Yes, but—but _him_ , Son. A _man_. And— _him_.” The disapproval was palpable.

“Ray, I’m just trying to keep you from screwing up more than you usually do, that’s all. Trying to keep you from ruining your life.” Aw, jeez, the disgust in those eyes.

“What would be wrong with _him?_ ” Really, just because a man wasn’t a Mountie didn’t make him any less worthy.

“Ruining my life,” Ray spat. “I’m _not_ ruining my life! This isn’t ruining my life! This is something you wouldn’t understand.”

“But, Son, a _man!_ I knew I shouldn’t have left you with your grandmother so much. Soft. That’s what she made you. Soft.”

“I’m _not_ soft!” Oh, why did his voice squeak so when he was upset? “And it’s not Grandmother’s influence. It’s just—just—just—”

“I understand plenty, Raymond! I understand I shoulda belted you harder when I had a chance, knocked the wuss out of you, knocked some _man_ into you! Then you wouldn’t be off with that pansy, doing things that make me just sick to think about—”

“Shut up, Pop! Just shut up! He’s more man than you ever were. He’s stronger than you ever were. He’s tougher than you ever were. He makes two of you!”

“I just don’t want to see you make a mistake, Son. Think of your career—”

“I just don’t want to see you screw up, Raymond. See you wind up in Hell—”

“Well, you know something, Pop? I would _go_ to Hell for this man; I _did_ go to hell for this man. Because, you know something, Pop?—”

“Dad, do you ever _listen_ to yourself? I mean, really _listen?_ I certainly didn’t _plan_ this, but it’s certainly not a _mistake_. It’s _Ray_. Steadfast and strong and kind and loving; and—and I—I—I—”

“I _love_ him, Pop.”

“I love him, Dad.”

Ray took a deep breath, aware of what had just been said. He turned to look at Benny. “God, help me, I love him.”

Benny was looking right back. “I love him.”

——

This was the longest, quietest moment in all of eternity. They stared at each other across the warm silence, suddenly alone in the brightening room.

Oh, god, this was what Ray’s heart had been trying to tell him. Not just his body, but his heart in love with Fraser. In love, real love. With Fraser.

Fraser reached down and helped Ray to his feet. The shower curtain was—well, a total loss. They could replace it. He looked deep into hazel eyes suddenly wide and shining like the sun.

“Did you mean that?” Ray said. “What you said—did you really mean it?” Oh, god, if Fraser didn’t mean it, how could he stand it?

“Yes, Ray. I really mean it.”

Hazel eyes crinkled in a smile. “Cool.”

“ ‘ _Cool_ ’, Ray? _Cool?_ I tell you I love you, and you say, ‘Cool’?” He looked closer at the smile. Oh. Teasing.

Fraser looked at his feet. His heart raced happily. This was even more exciting than he had imagined, more invigorating, more frightening—

He laid a hand on the wall, looked at Ray. “I don’t have—good luck—in relationships. I— Are you bad for me?” He smiled to gentle it, to make the truth into a joke. “I only seem to fall in love with those who—are bad for me. Are you bad for me, Ray?”

That voice was so faint that Ray almost couldn’t hear it. His heart flip-flopped. “I won’t mean to be.”

Fraser’s eyes were tentative, searching.

Ray found his own voice. “How do I know you won’t—follow some other inclination when I can least stand it?”

A look; a little smile. “I wouldn’t— I— Meg Thatcher is just not ever going to be a real relationship. She’ll never make up her mind to come to me freely, and I wouldn’t want her any other way.” His eyes were tender. “And I don’t love Meg Thatcher.” Oh, the heat in that husky voice, in those eyes.

Benny dropped his eyes. “There was a time when I thought that what I felt for—Victoria—was love.” His voice sounded raw. He cleared his throat. “But then I came to understand that it was—need. A desperate need to feel that I wasn’t completely alone.” Ray watched his chest heave. “That need is still—raw.” Benny looked up, deep into his eyes. “ _Am_ I completely alone, Ray?” Voice barely above a whisper.

Response just as quiet. “No.” Little word, to spark that smile.

“Am I going to be—left alone again—” The sentence faltered with the voice.

Ray put his hand on his own chest. “With _my_ luck with women?” he said mockingly. “No, Benny, much as I hate to admit it, I’m afraid you’re it for me. Uh—not that I _hate_ to admit it, but— Aw, gee, Benny, you’re just it for me.”

Benny’s smile warmed places in Ray’s soul that hadn’t seen the sun in years. He took a deep breath. Raw was something he understood; he felt it every time he saw the scar on Benny’s back.

“I saw a gun in her hand, Benny,” he said. “I really did see a gun.”

“I know.” A pause, filled with the light of Benny’s eyes. “You have always been there, exactly when I’ve needed you.”

A pause, filled with the thunder of his own heart.

And Benny whispered, “And you have always done _exactly_ the right thing.”

No sound in that bathroom but the beating of a heart; no sight in that bathroom but that tender gaze.

“Except for giving Dief my extra donut that first time we had coffee together,” Ray said finally.

“Well, some things are just unforgiveable, Ray.”

Smiles melted into each other in the tenderness of a kiss, in the sweetness of an embrace. More to be said, they both knew, but, suddenly, two lifetimes in which to say it.

Ray looked at the shambles around them. “Is this one of the dumber places to be having this conversation?”

Fraser laughed. “Well,” he said, “I can think of half a dozen worse places.”

Towel wrapped around his waist, Ray sat on the toilet seat and watched Fraser getting ready to shave. Those little champagne bubbles were tickling through him again. _Bed_ , he thought happily. _Bed, bed, bed_. But suddenly he felt like they had all the time in the world. Watching Fraser shave was exactly what he wanted to do right now.

Only Fraser wasn’t shaving. He lifted the straight razor, put the edge to his face, and lowered his hand; paused. Lifted the razor again, paused, lowered it again. He gave Ray a wry smile in the mirror. “I’m afraid you’re—distracting, Ray. I’ll end up cutting my throat.”

“I’ll go back to the apartment.”

“No, I’m afraid you’ll be just as distracting there. You’re just—just distracting, Ray.”

Ray grinned at him. Distracting. Distracting was a lovely way to be.

Lather wiped off, Fraser led the way into the hallway. They walked together through the silent building. Ray stopped, grabbed Fraser’s hand, pulled him back and smiled into his eyes. Fraser, startled, looked around; then smiled as he was pulled into a kiss. Of course. They were alone. Completely, deliciously alone.

“I can kiss you at every step,” Ray said happily. “We can make all the noise we want!”

Fraser smiled at him, tugged him down the hall. All the noise they wanted to make. Time to get started.

Door to the apartment closed firmly; Ray grinned as Fraser jammed the back of a chair under the doorknob. Locked in with Fraser; locked in cozy with Fraser. It wasn’t Tuktoyaktuk, but it would do.

Then Fraser was quietly taking Ray’s towel. Ray watched, open-mouthed, as he walked to the table and spread the towel over the second chair there, spread his own on the table itself, walked back, casual in his nakedness.

Oh, god, just casually naked with each other, naked in Fraser’s apartment, going to bed to make love, love, love. Noisy, groaning, screaming, howling love.

Fraser took his hand, lifted it to his mouth. And with his eyes on Ray’s he kissed its fingers, back, front; then put them, one by one, into his mouth, caressing each with a silken tongue on the way out.

Eyes like the sun; mouth a silky furnace; the slow, constant burn in Ray’s groin ignited with a roar. He took Benny’s head in his hands, clamped their mouths together, laughed at the laughter against his lips, began to walk Benny steadily toward the waiting bed.

Benny’s hands settled on his ass, clenching, pulling, as Ray’s tongue tasted mouth, teeth, roof of mouth, tasted a tongue eager for his own. Oh, this was it—this was really it—this was way past love. He was going to give himself to the Mountie until there was nothing left, until they were both nothing but skin over bones, both melted in passions hotter than fire.

He pulled away to draw breath. “I want you inside me,” he whispered hoarsely. “You. Inside me. _Now_.”

Fraser pulled him down onto the rumpled bed, pushed his shoulders to the mattress, mouth on his a hungry entity all on its own. When he pulled away, Ray looked up into blue eyes hotter than a July sky, merciless in their heat.

He reached up, pulled Fraser’s mouth to his. Give himself to Fraser—just spread his legs and give himself to that all-consuming fire. Fraser’s hands on his body were sweet torture. His groans were echoed by that other rough voice.

Fraser rolled, pulled Ray onto him. His hips had come alive, mindful only of the need to thrust. His hands moved of their own accord down to the gently rounded buttocks, to the hot crevice between them. His fingers found the center they were seeking, pushed their way into the molten heat of Ray’s body. The sweet, ragged cry from Ray’s hungry mouth was a music that inflamed.

Then he felt himself being pulled to the corner of the bed, felt Ray spreading his legs. He supported himself on his elbows, legs spread wide and feet on the cool floor, barely hearing his own ragged groans, aware only of the hot mouth moving steadily down to the heart of his need.

Footlocker. Ray fumbled inside it, brought out a handful of condoms. Any would do, any one of them, though the rougher the better—he wanted to feel every stroke; one of the ridged ones would be perfect. He didn’t care. He wanted it rough; he wanted it gentle; he just wanted it—hard and fast and now. He opened the only packet his eager fingers didn’t drop.

Ah, jeez, who could know that putting on a condom could be such a turn on? Kiss every inch as you cover it, then kiss it through the latex, make your way down to tight, hot balls the texture of old knitting. Fraser’s ass lifting as you take his balls into your mouth, suck gently, explore them with your tongue; Fraser’s whimpering cries sending shivers up your cock. Lick the straining thighs.

Fraser sat up with difficulty, blind hands fumbling for the bristly head between his knees, cradling it; he leaned forward to kiss what he held in his hands. Oh, the sweetness of his hands on Ray—of his mouth caressing every inch of that laughing face. Mouth on his as they moved together back onto the bed.

Bite the sweet ear, gentle the straining penis as you stretch him out on the bed, on his back. Fumble for the KY jelly on the floor; look deep into the molten hazel eyes as you insert jelly deep, deeper, deeper; feast your eyes on the wonder in the eyes; feast your ears on the gulping gasps of pleasure. Ray—this is—Ray—

Pause, not quite eternal, fingers knotted in the bottom sheet.

Tip of a cock sliding into him, hot bulk of Benny filling him, all emptiness filled. He groaned and closed his eyes in the joy of it.

Movement. Ray’s hips moving in time with Benny’s. Oh, Benny—this is—Benny—

“Look at me, Ray.” Fraser’s voice was raw with strain, with the strain of stopping the movement.

He looked up, into tender blue eyes. Light—there seemed to be light everywhere: sun shining into the room.

Oh, and then they were moving together, staring into each other’s eyes, blue and hazel locked. Benny’s hand hot around a slick cock hotter than the sun, pressing it to brand his belly, friction of Benny’s satiny belly a bone-melting sweetness, tightness of Ray’s passage a ravishing bliss.

Building, building—

Ray’s cry was half laughter, half ecstasy as he surrendered himself to the exquisite explosion in Benny’s hand. He cried out again, all laughter, at the final thrust into his own body, at the joy in Benny’s eyes, at Benny’s own laughter mixed with the sound of his name.

A moment between heartbeats; they looked at each other, drinking in the wonder on the other’s face, as if through a haze of golden light.

Light—he was filled with light, all shadows gone as Benny slipped from his body; taking Benny gently into his arms, pulling him to nestle close.

Light—he was filled with warm light, all cold vanquished as Ray’s legs entwined with his; breathing in the musk of Ray’s skin, pulling him close to nestle.

Light. And warmth. And sleep.

——

Snuffle in his ear. Ray jolted awake, felt his heart slow back to normal when he saw the wolf in the moonlight. Moonlight. Late.

“Oh, hey, Dief, did we forget to feed you?” He buried his hand in the wolf’s fur, trying to stroke away the insult. “Sorry, Dief.”

Movement behind him, and Benny’s hand joined his. Ray relaxed against him, his eyes on their hands stroking the wolf’s head. Two boys and their wolf.

“We should have put him outside,” Benny said.

“Naw—three’s company, eh, Dief?”

Clearing of throat. “Ray, that’s ‘ _two’s_ company’; _three’s_ a _crowd_.”

“I _know_ , Benny. But not when it’s Dief and us.”

A sigh. “You’re not going to spoil this wolf, are you Ray?”

Ray turned his head and nipped the first body part his lips could reach. “Well, he _is_ the closest we’ll come to having kids.” Sorry, Ma—no grandkids from Ray.

Another sigh, and Fraser gave it up, pulling the sweet mouth to his own. It would just be up to him to make sure there was some discipline around here. Ray could be so—sentimental.

“I better feed you,” Ray said. Feed Benny. Gee, he wished he knew how to cook; he’d like to cook for Benny, watch him eat.

“No takeout. I don’t want anybody else—here.”

“Wise.” His mouth found Benny’s, kissed it thoroughly.

“I’ll make you pancakes.” Ray in the waning moonlight. Oh, Ray in the moonlight.

Pancakes—were they some sort of aphrodisiac? Ray didn’t think so, but then he’d never had them made by Benny in nothing but boxer shorts, over a little camp stove that required a lot of bending and straightening, bending and straightening, that was really inspiring when seen from behind.

And he’d never watched Benny eat them, really watched that kiss-swollen mouth move as Benny chewed, as Benny talked, knowing that they had all night together, all life together. Yep, pancakes were really an aphrodisiac. Science should be told.

No wonder Ray stayed so slim: he never _ate_ anything. He had pushed away his plate to rest his elbows on the table and now was—well, _staring_ at Fraser with a happy smile. Ridiculous. Fraser cut pancake off Ray’s stack, speared it with a fork, pushed pancake into the kiss-bruised mouth. Really—the man needed his strength; didn’t he realize?

Aw, jeez, he needed his strength. All the strength he could get. Ray picked up the top pancake with his fingers, tore bites off while he watched Benny eat, watched Benny tell a story about some caribou herd outside of Inuvik. It wouldn’t stay this way forever. This was that transcendant sex phase that wouldn’t stay this way forever. But he was determined to enjoy it while it lasted, especially given what was going to happen when people found out. Think about that tomorrow; right now think about—

Benny had the startled caribou look, like he just realized that he’d done something foolish, that he was going on and on and probably boring Ray to death.

“So, what did the wolf do?” Ray asked, forking in a bite of pancake. Aw, gee, had some part of him been _listening?_

The glow in the Mountie’s eyes made it worth it. He happily not-listened to the rest of the caribou story, demolishing the pancakes while he thought about what all that energy would do for them.

Now, see that Ray drank all his milk. Besides, it would be warm tomorrow: out on the fire escape, where Fraser had been keeping it, the milk would sour.

“I’d like to check the building again,” he said. “But—how about a hand of poker after that?”

Ray’s eyebrows climbed halfway to his hairline. “ _Poker?_ ”

“Yes, Ray. Poker.”

“Sure!” Aw, gee—poker with Benny. “I gotta warn you, though, I don’t have much on me—and, remember, you don’t have a lot of matchsticks.”

Halfway up from the table, Fraser bent, fixed Ray’s gaze with his own, placed a firm kiss on a mouth sweet with maple syrup. Ray’s eyes crinkled at the promises in that kiss.

“Oh,” Fraser told him, eyes shining in the lamp light, “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Little Mr. Marker" was supposed to be a one-shot; then "Thief of Hearts" was supposed to be the end of it; when I got the idea for "The Fire this Time", I knew I was in trouble. This one was an experiment; I wanted to see if I could write a gen version that wasn't just the slash version without sex scenes. It turned out that, while I wrote the first sex scene of this one before I wrote either story, I had to write "Chicago Burning" first: I was too afraid I'd mix up the versions! The two stories turned out very similiar, especially since I couldn't resist putting in the "Millennium-maniac" subplot I came up with for the gen version. It was just too much fun. Of course, the endings are different; I didn't think Fraser needed to tell himself an Inuit story in the slash version, not with the sexy Italian right there on the spot.... And I realized a month or so after both were published, that when Fraser and Ray are escaping the fire in the warehouse, in the slash version Ray pushes Fraser out of the circle of fire ahead of him, while in the gen version he selfishly crawls out first!
> 
> This story is also my love song to Chicago, the home of great pizza and enervating traffic jams. Ray driving Lakeshore Drive: I've been there, done that, lived to tell about it. And I'd love to kiss Ray in the elevator of the Hancock....
> 
> The Skeleton Woman story Fraser refers to when he's thinking about him and Ray probably isn't a real Inuit story, but I couldn't resist using it; the references to cold and to being cast out were just too good not to use. (The bringer of light story Fraser tells himself in the gen version is more likely authentic; the idea of coming south, protected by a dead mother's influence, was just perfect.)
> 
> This story appeared in the print zine _Due Frisky 4_.


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